The Ballad of the Midnight Stag
by Mr. Munch
Summary: Nat Baratheon is the sole trueborn child of King Robert Baratheon and Queen Cersei Lannister. Thrust into an early reign, how will the presence of the Midnight Stag alter the course of Westeros' history? Who will win the Game of Thrones? Based mostly off of the TV series with small influences from the Song of Ice and Fire books. [OC]
1. Stag

**The Ballad of the Midnight Stag**

**Chapter One- Stag**

The sound of metal boots meeting marble tiles echoed in unison with the clanging of bells throughout the hall as an armored figure made his way towards the throne room. The man's face was strained with the effort of holding back tears as he passed through the double doors of the chamber and cut his way through a crowd of noble mourners.

It was then that he spotted him.

Jon Arryn. Hand to King Robert I Baratheon and one of the most respected men in the realm- dead. The somber whispers of the lords and ladies of King's Landing bounced off the walls of the great chamber as each of the mourners expressed their disbelief in the passing of such a man. Nat could hardly believe it himself as he approached the man's corpse. As is custom in the Faith of the Seven, painted stones decorated the closed eyes of the Lord of the Vale, carefully painted to resemble the deep brown of his eyes in life.

Nat felt his heart lurch at the sight of him. To many, the loss of Jon Arryn was the loss of a great man. The Warden of the East, a war hero, an idol to model one's self after- but not to Nat. To Nat, the loss of Jon Arryn was the loss of family. Nat had been brought up under Jon Arryn's care since he could remember. The man had been there when his own father hadn't, had taught him to ride horses, how to read and write, watched over him as he learned to wield a blade. How could a man so important, so magnificent in character die without warning?

Nat felt his blood begin to boil as his emerald eyes filled with rage. Nat was young, only 17 years of age, but his grandfather had seen to it that he was not stupid. Jon Arryn had been the picture of health for a man of his age up until just days prior to his untimely death. Unfortunately for the perpetrator, Nat could recognize the signs of poison. Blinking the tears from his eyes, Nat whirled around and allowed the lords and ladies of King's Landing the chance to mourn. There would be no more mourning, he swore to himself, until the assassin's head was on a spike atop the walls of the Red Keep. As he exited the room, Nat had already planned to meet with his small network of spies and review their intel from the last several weeks- no stone would go unturned. But that would have to wait, for now, Nat needed to arrange for his things to be packed and ready for a long journey north.

Atop the balconies, another set of emerald eyes were filled with fury. Queen Cersei Lannister followed the figure of her eldest son, Nat Baratheon, as he stormed from the throne room. A foolish display, she thought. One of such high pedigree should never display their emotions before the members of their court.

Cersei glanced back towards the corpse of Jon Arryn. If there was one regret of Cersei's life it was allowing Nat to spend so much time with Lord Arryn. The man was too open, too loving, too weak. Allowing the deceased Hand of the King to spend so much time with her son had allowed some of his weakness to seep into Nat. That would have to be corrected.

"As your brother, I feel it's my duty to warn you: you worry too much, it's starting to show."

Cersei's eyes softened at the sound of the voice. She turned and met familiar green eyes. Ser Jaime Lannister, her twin brother, smiled down at her with that familiar, cutting grin.

"You never worry about anything," she retorted. "When we were seven you jumped off the cliffs at Casterly Rock. A hundred-foot drop into the water and you were never afraid."

Jaime's smile grew wider, "There was nothing to be afraid of until you told father." The knight lowered his voice, "We're Lannisters, and Lannisters don't act like fools."

The corners of Cersei's lips turned upwards at his mocking of their father before her gaze returned to the body of Jon Arryn. "What if he told someone?" she asked.

Jaime followed her gaze. "Who would he tell?"

"My husband."

Jaime shrugged, "If he told the king both our heads would be skewered on the city gates by now; whatever Jon Arryn knew or didn't know died with him. And so, Robert will choose a new Hand to do his job while he's off fucking boars and hunting whores- or is it the other way around? Life will go on."

Cersei looked back at him, "You should be Hand of the King."

Jaime smiled once more, "That is an honor I could do without; their days are too long and their lives too short."

Crown prince Nat Baratheon rubbed his temples as he sat at the edge of his bed. He had just received word from several of his key contacts- both within and outside of the court- regarding his mission to avenge the death of Jon Arryn. Though Nat was an excellent tactician- another product of his grandfather's influence- the Baratheon in his blood groaned at the monotonous nature of scheming. Life would be much simpler if all his enemies would simply charge at him with their swords in hand.

Nat glanced towards the mirror in the corner of his chambers and watched the man in royal robes stare back at him. He looked tired, bags under his emerald eyes and his brow glistening with an anxious sweat. Tired he was. He had spent several sleepless nights since Jon Arryn's death plotting, communicating and gathering information on the mysterious circumstances surrounding the Hand of the King's demise. Nat stood and adjusted the straps on his sheath. Though he felt the wear of consciousness dragging him down, he still cut an impressive figure. Well over six feet tall, Nat's black hair and piercing Lannister eyes intimidated any who dared cross him. Ser Barristan Selmy often commented how much he resembled his father in his prime. His sister disagreed:

_Father never smiles, and when he does it's never as pleasant as when you do, brother._

Nat smiled to himself. Even through all the hardships, the ever-increasing role in running the seven kingdoms that he was taking on, at least there was Myrcella to brighten his day.

A knock on his bedchamber's door stirred him from his thoughts.

"Yes? What is it?"

The door creaked open and the comely face of Ser Arys Oakheart peaked into the room. "Pardon me, Your Grace, but your father requests your immediate presence at the city gates."

Nat nodded to the member of the Kingsguard, "Inform him that I'll be there momentarily."

Ser Arys gave a curt nod and left to rejoin the party at the city gates.

Nat threw once last glance at himself in the mirror and frowned. He would need to sleep properly on the journey north, he couldn't present himself so unkempt to Lord Stark and his family.

**3 weeks later**

"Halt!" cried King Robert Baratheon.

Prince Nat sighed to himself as he watched his father struggle to remove his left leg from the saddle of his horse. The Kingsguard at their flanks stopped atop their horses and watched as their king paced angrily in circles as the rest of their enormous party caught up behind them.

"Seven Hells this journey would be going much quicker if your damned mother could keep up!" he roared.

Nat rolled his eyes, "This journey would be a lot more pleasant if you would refrain from stopping to complain every evening, father."

Robert's blue eyes flashed with fury as he turned towards his eldest son, "You will watch your tone with me, boy, or I swear by the old gods and the new-"

"Settle down, father. We're already well past the Neck; Winterfell isn't too far off, now."

Robert grumbled and marched off as tents went up around them. "I don't see why your mother and siblings couldn't just stay in King's Landing if they were planning on keeping me from a warm meal and sweet wine."

Nat sighed as he dismounted and passed his lead off to one of the royal party's stable boys. Robert was a tragedy in Nat's eyes. He grew up hearing stories of the famous rebel Lord Robert Baratheon's mighty triumph over the Mad King. Of his bravery and daring. But the war broke him as war breaks all. And there he stood, a husk of a man that could hardly lift his hammer from the floor. Nat had loved him once, back when bard's songs held no comparison to his father in his eyes. But no longer. Now all that remained was pity.

Nat waved away the stable boy and made his way towards a lavish tent near the perimeter of their camp. The cloth of the tent was somewhat crooked as the manservants had yet to finish erecting the wooden interior. Nat shooed them off and analyzed the interior of his home for the evening. The tent was ordinarily much larger with fine rugs, lush pillows, and room for a great many people within. Tonight, only the main compartment had been prepared with Lannister red rugs and soft pillows scattered throughout the tent. To the side, servants were rushing about, bringing in roasted quail, duck, and boar alongside a myriad of purple and red wines. Nat flagged down the nearest of them, a stout young man with shaggy hair.

"Y-yes my Prince?" he stuttered.

"Inform the cooks that I'll be skipping a main course and would like my sweets to be brought to the tent for the evening, if you would."

With a curt nod the young man scurried away, quickly followed by the remaining servants leaving Nat alone within the confines of his tent. The prince poured himself a goblet of wine and lapped at it as he began to undo the straps of his ceremonial armor. Though the prince thought himself to look quite dashing in the black steel of the armor it was rather cumbersome to wear, especially over long journeys such as the one he found himself on currently. Despite his discomfort Nat tried to adhere to his mother's philosophy regarding the maintenance of appearances for the common folk and remained determined to wear the armor all the way to Winterfell.

As Nat removed the shin plating of his armor, the sweeping sound of tent flaps being swept aside arose from behind him. Nat made his way towards the far end of his tent where large pillows and wool blankets were piled into a sort of bed with a wave, "This way please," he directed.

Nat collapsed into the pillows and smiled shrewdly as his sweets made their way towards him. The whores wore thin robes that left little to the imagination as they leaned towards the prince with sly smiles.

Nat despised much about his father. From the everlasting stupor he spent his days in, to the decay he had allowed the Seven Kingdoms to fall into, there was very little the prince could understand about the king. The one thing that Nat and Robert Baratheon shared was their penchant for women. Lust was something that Nat understood very well. On his fifteenth name day, King Robert in a rare moment of concern for his son's wellbeing, saw to it personally that his son be made a man. In the King's own words, "No son of mine will be declared a man until he has known the touch of a woman." And as such, Nat had developed a taste for "sweets" as he coded them.

Nat would be remiss should his taste for women become common knowledge among his people and took special care in sneaking his partners into the Red Keep. His most trusted advisors in King's Landing would guide the women throughout the castle's secret passages and into his apartment, a task that often took hours. Though even if his promiscuity were to be unveiled, the prince had resigned himself to only a few choice women, determined to avoid emulating his father too much. Most folk would probably think the whores to be Robert's anyways.

Nat's green eyes traced them hungrily. They didn't quite compare to his favorite whores, but they would do for the evening. The prince was starved and if he couldn't have his favorite meals then a serving of sweets would suffice for now.

The whores were gone before dawn the next morning.

The prince lay in a pile of pillows and blankets, raven hair matted to his forehead and mouth agape. He looked anything but princely stripped of his clothing and reeking of sex. Had his mother been the one to come across him, the prince would get a cold lecture about his duties and their family's public image. Thankfully for Nat, it was not his mother.

"Nat!"

The prince garbled and buried his head below the surface of his pillow foundation.

Myrcella Baratheon picked up a pillow in disgust and channeled the lost strength of their father as she brought it down upon her brother, hitting him directly on his exposed neck. The prince choked and sat up, fists clenched and ready to retaliate. When he found his assailant to be his embarrassed younger sister, he groaned and lay back in his mound.

"Cella, please leave my tent so that I can sleep off all of the sweets I had last night, I'm still quite sick from them," he sighed with a wave.

Myrcella made a face at him and placed her hands at her hips, "Brother, father's already left for Winterfell without you; you need to get up!"

The prince's emerald eyes narrowed, "He's done what?" the prince asked, lifting himself from his bed.

Myrcella furrowed her brow, "Father's left with a third of the party already! He was in a fit when you slept past dawn."

The prince leaned to his left and snatched his trousers. "Then why didn't I wake up with a hammer where my nose should be?" he asked.

The princess clasped her hands together and made circles with her thumbs, "Well, he tried to…mother wouldn't let him!" she said, noticing the prince's rage growing.

_The bastard would embarrass us in front of the Starks like this? The gall of that man,_ he thought.

With his trousers secured Nat rose from his bed and made for his ceremonial armor. He leaned his right arm atop his sister's head, to her chagrin, as he reached down for his gloves. The prince chuckled hearing his sister squirming under his weight.

_Leave it to Cella to put a smile on my face_, he thought with a grin.

"Thank you for alerting me, little one," he said, poking her nose. The princess blushed and pushed her brother's arm off of her head as he began to strap on his armor. At least their mother would be satisfied now that Nat was awake.

"Cella, alert the stable boys that I need my horse prepared at once, quickly now," Nat commanded. Myrcella nodded and rushed from the tent, her golden dress trailing behind her as she burst through the flaps of the tent.

_This entire journey will be an unmitigated disaster if I don't stop that fat old fool soon_, the prince thought.

Myrcella weaved carefully through what remained of their camp searching for one of the stable boys to relay Nat's order. The look in her brother's eyes was troubling. He was angry, she could tell. No matter how good an actor her brother was, he couldn't disguise the fury in his eyes no matter how hard he tried. Her mother would call it the 'Baratheon rage' in his blood. Her father and other older brother Joffrey were the same way, though they made little attempt at disguising their anger.

Myrcella thought Nat's anger much scarier than theirs, however. While Joffrey and Robert would unleash their wrath explosively, Nat was much more focused in his wrath. Rather than take it out on whomever was closest, Nat would direct it towards the source. Seeing her brother channel all his rage onto anyone was terrifying indeed. Myrcella would do well to avoid invoking any of it by ignoring his orders.

Thankfully for the princess, the stable boys had already readied Nat's horse. The black steed was muscled and regal, much like its rider. Nat had specially chosen the colt a year ago to match his ceremonial armor.

'_He'll go well with my armor… I reckon I'll intimidate any vagabonds atop this fellow, wouldn't you agree?'_ he said to her. Myrcella smiled at the memory. Nat could be quite scary, but at his core, she knew her brother was a man that enjoyed making people smile more than he enjoyed making them afraid.

"I told you he's ready! I'll have your head if you don't leave me be!" a shrill voice shouted.

Her brother Joffrey, on the other hand, enjoyed quite the opposite.

Joffrey Baratheon was the opposite of his elder brother in physical form as much as he was in spirit. The prince was scrawny with curly golden hair and deep green eyes. His lips seemed to form a thin frown even on happy occasions. Joffrey was their mother's favorite and as such had been spoiled rotten. He had never gotten along with Myrcella or their brothers, but in recent years he had become especially cruel. Luckily, Nat was not above disciplining Joffrey, even if it earned their mother's scolding.

Unfortunately for Myrcella, Nat was not there now.

"Myrcella! What do you think you're doing?" he screeched.

Myrcella shriveled at the sound, "W-well, brother asked me to tell the stable boys to fetch his horse, so I-"

Joffrey bucked his horse before her, sending a surprised Myrcella stumbling backwards. "A woman has no place near stables or stallions! Go back to the carriage with mother and Tommen where you belong," he ordered before galloping away.

Myrcella frowned as she watched Joffrey gallop off after the soldiers following their father. Yes, Joffrey was nothing like Nat at all.

Nat pushed Ser Trot hard along the King's Road as he followed the tail of his father's party. He patted the colt on the side, "Just a bit further Ser Trot and then it's just an easy march the rest of the way," he told him.

The colt was chosen to bear the weight of his ceremonial armor but not quite to charge for miles under its weight. Hopefully he could manage another mile or so. It would be heartbreaking to have to tell Tommen the horse had passed, especially as he had given the colt its name. Nat couldn't help but smile at the memory of his first encounter with the horse.

At Jon Arryn's suggestion, the prince had been searching for a young colt to serve as his transportation during diplomatic trips and ceremonies. 'A king must present himself as one or he is no king at all in the eyes of the people' he had said.

Having agreed, Nat requested to see the young colts that the Master of Horse had been raising. Though the task had little to do with them, Nat had brought along Myrcella and Tommen so that they might admire the young mares and colts in the royal stables. Ser Trot was the third colt that the Master of Horse had brought for Nat to examine; one look at his fine onyx hair and energetic demeanor and the choice was made.

The prince brought his siblings over to admire his new steed and before long Tommen had asked to ride him. _Oh, please brother! Father never lets me near his horse, it'll only be just this once!_

Seeing the child's pouty green eyes, it was all he could do but to let him ride the horse. But Nat held a semblance of willpower and swore Tommen to just a light trot around the field.

_That'll be his name, then!_ Tommen proclaimed. _Just like Ser Pounce…he and Ser Trot'll be good friends, don't you think brother?_

No, it wouldn't do to disappoint Tommen by pushing Ser Trot to his death. The colt was strong he knew, that was why he chose him after all, and so they continued on their way, riding another half-day until coming across the sounds of boisterous laughter and music.

Nat found his father alongside a number of their troops gorging themselves on fresh pheasant and quail while a local bard performed a song about the fall of the mad king Aerys II Targaryen. Nat grit his teeth and guided Ser Trot into the clearing where the bard was singing, cutting the entertainment short.

The eyes of every soldier and manservant at the encampment moved between the king and his heir, no one dared move.

Robert put down the quail leg he was working on and stood, belly nudging his plate towards the middle of his table. "Boy, what in the seven hells do you think you're doing interrupting my entertainment?"

Nat's emerald eyes pierced into Robert's blue ones as he enunciated every word, "What am I doing? What are _you_ doing?" Nat spun Ser Trot in a circle and addressed the troops at large. "Is this how we plan to present ourselves to the Starks?"

The hush among the troops only seemed to grow quieter as Nat turned to face the king.

"You mean to ask Lord Stark to become your hand in this sorry state? It's bad enough there are some that still refer to you as the Usurper, would you like to add Fat Oaf to the list!?" he queried.

Robert's cheeks were as red as the wine in his cup. The king kicked his chair behind him and slammed his fists on the table, cracking the wood, "I am your king, boy! I am your king and you will not disrespect me in such a manner again or I'll have your head on a pike, do you hear me!?"

Nat dismounted and bowed, "Of course _Your Grace_, I'll be waiting at dawn, then."

The prince stormed off, leaving Ser Trot behind for the nearest stable boy to tend to. He had certainly landed himself in hot waters with his outburst, but he couldn't stand for the disrespect his father had shown towards himself, his family, and most importantly the Starks. Nat was still young and years away from ruling. If the Seven Kingdoms were to survive without Jon Arryn, they would need the guidance of Lord Eddard Stark, guidance that would certainly not be received if the king showed up so informally and made a fool of himself.

As the prince made his way to the northern edge of camp, where his tent would be arranged momentarily now that he had arrived, he wondered if perhaps his mother was right about the Baratheon in his blood. Perhaps one day it would be the end of him. He shook the thoughts off and stared out into the darkness.

Somewhere in the distance was Winterfell. Somewhere in the distance was the future of the Seven Kingdoms. For the sake of his family and all the families in the Seven Kingdoms, he hoped that they would arrive soon.

**Hello there. It's been quite awhile since I've written anything for this website. I've had this story concept in mind for several months and I figured I should get at least the first chapter up and out into the world to see how it's received. I'd like to make a full book out of this one and have an overarching skeleton made out for it but only if it's received well enough.**

**Robert and Cersei's first child surviving is a popular concept for fanfiction and one that's always interested me but reading DeadlyMaelstrom711's "Trials and Tribulations of the Oathkeeper" really inspired me to give my own take a try. **

**I'll be primarily following the cannon of the TV show but descriptions of many characters and places will be primarily based off the Song of Ice and Fire books. There also may be a few characters from the books not included in the TV show that pop up later in the story.**

**I would highly recommend checking out Trials and Tribulations if you haven't already. It's cohesive and genuinely interesting and still being updated quite frequently. Anyway, let me know your thoughts on this concept and if you'd like to see it continue and I'll respond accordingly.**

**Have a good one.**

**-Munch**


	2. Shewolf

**Chapter Two- Shewolf**

The men and women of Winterfell shook in their boots as the procession came up the King's Road. The king of the realm, Robert I Baratheon, and his troop of royal guards were coming for a diplomatic visit and the entire castle was in a buzz.

All but the heads of House Stark: Lord Eddard Stark and his wife Catelyn.

Catelyn glanced up at her husband, eyes softening upon his hardened face. It had been a difficult past few weeks for the Warden of the North. The anxiety that came with a visit from the royal family was enough on its own to throw her husband off, but having a visit so soon after finding out that his foster father Lord Jon Arryn had passed away? Poor Ned must have been in terrible pain.

Catelyn felt a pang in her chest at the thought of the Lord of the Vale as well. Though her relationship with the Warden of the East was much sparser than was Ned's, she was still quite fond of the man. Afterall, he had married her sister, Lady Lysa Arryn, during Robert's Rebellion years ago. He was always kind to her, and Catelyn was greatly saddened to hear of his death.

Catelyn leaned past her husband and looked at their brood, lined up all neat in preparation for the king's visit. She counted four of them and frowned. That wasn't right. There should be five of her children.

"Where's Arya?" she said aloud. Catelyn turned to her eldest daughter. "Sansa," she asked. "Where's your sister?"

Sansa shrugged and turned her focus back to the King's Road.

As riders began to march through the gates of the first of Winterfell's two walls, bearing the sigils of House Baratheon and House Lannister, a small figure in a helmet bolted out in front of the Starks. Before they got any further, Ned had his arm around their torso and pulled the figure back into him.

Ned removed the helmet to reveal his missing daughter, Arya.

"What are you doing with that on?" he asked her.

Arya looked down at her toes and scooted into line next to her younger brother, Brandon, as Lord Stark's bastard Jon Snow and his ward, Theon Greyjoy, sniggered behind them.

"Move!" Arya ordered, shoving Bran to the side.

With the entire Stark family present, the royal procession began to flow through the gates of Winterfell in full force. First came the crown prince, Nat Baratheon, followed quickly by his younger brother Joffrey Baratheon and their personal guard Sandor Clegane. Catelyn thought he looked fearsome in his hound's head helm. She glanced at her children and noticed Sansa wearing a pretty smile, trying to catch Nat Baratheon's eye. Moments later a coach carrying the queen, Cersei Lannister, as well as Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen pulled into the courtyard. Lastly came King Robert surrounded by his knights of the Kingsguard.

The men and women of Winterfell bowed in their presence.

As the king clumsily dismounted with the assistance of a servant with a stool, Catelyn peaked at her husband and noticed a visible droop in his expression. It had been many years since they had seen his old friend, and the years had not been kind to the king. The once handsome and fearsome rebel had gotten considerably fat ad red-faced like the lazy nobles he used to mock in the old days.

With a wave of his hand, King Robert motioned for all to rise.

"Your Grace," Ned said, punctuated with a soft nod.

"You've gotten fat," the king responded bluntly.

The courtyard was silent. The tension in the air reverberated through their bones. Catelyn held her breath. So, it seemed the years had not been kind to the king in morale as well as his physicality. She glanced at Ned; eyes full of concern with what he would do.

He looked the king up and down and gestured towards his protruding belly with his eyes. Catelyn was sure that they were doomed before the two men burst out into boisterous laughter. She smiled, perhaps the years had not changed Robert so much after all.

He turned to her next. "Cat!" he exclaimed, pulling her into a warm hug.

She smiled and nodded down to the king, "Your Grace."

Robert ruffled their youngest son Rickon's hair and turned back to Ned. "Nine years!? Why haven't I seen you? The hell have you been?" he inquired.

Ned replied, "Guarding the North for you, Your Grace; Winterfell is yours."

As the men spoke, Queen Cersei descended the steps of the coach, followed by the prince and princess, and made her way toward the Starks. Just as Cat had released her nervous breath, Arya gave her more reason to worry as she exclaimed, "Where's the imp!?"

Sansa's smile evaporated, "Shut up!" she huffed.

Catelyn was mortified. She might have exploded herself had she not noticed the humorous expression on Nat Baratheon's expression at the mention of his uncle. So long as at least one of the members of the royal family was smiling there shouldn't be anything to worry about.

She returned her attention to the king as he sized up her eldest, Robb. "Who do we have here? You must be Robb!" he queried, extending a hand to her son.

Robb nodded and took the king's hand, "I am, Your Grace."

He moved down the line, turning to Sansa and Arya. "My you're a pretty one," he told Sansa before giving Arya a quizzical look, "And you are?"

"Arya."

The king shrugged and moved onto Bran, "Ah look at you! Show us all your muscles!"

Bran grinned cheekily and complied with the king's request, flexing his small arms for the royal procession. "You'll be a solider, you!" Robert proclaimed.

Catelyn smiled before noticing her daughters arguing once more.

Arya was staring at one of Robert's Kingsguard, a man with long hair curled at the ends the color of gold. He had cat-green eyes and a sharp jawline. "That's the queen's brother, Cersei Lannister!" she exclaimed.

Sansa furrowed her brow and grumbled, "Would you please shut up!" to Arya.

The queen extended her hand to Ned, who took it and promptly kissed her ring. "My Queen," Ned greeted. Cersei responded with a subtle smile at Ned's greeting.

Catelyn followed suit with a curt bow.

Robert buried his smile and squared his shoulders as he addressed Ned, "Take me to your crypt; I want to pay my respects."

Catelyn looked between the king and queen and noted a small twitching of the queen's mouth at the mention of the crypts. Her eldest son also noticeably frowned at Robert's suggestion.

"My love, we've been riding for a month, surely the dead can wait," Cersei interposed.

The king glared at his wife, "Ned!" he said more forcefully.

Cersei held his gaze, the two staring at one another for several terse moments before Robert stormed away. Ned bowed to the queen before leading the king towards the old tower entrance to the crypts.

The energy in the air was sour once more as the crown prince leapt from his horse and bellowed, "Well that was certainly a lovely trip!" to the slight chuckles of the surrounding servants in the courtyard.

The prince towered over Catelyn as her approached, bending down to kiss her hand.

"Lady Catelyn it's a pleasure to see you once again, thank you for hosting our lot for the evening," he greeted.

She nodded and returned his greeting, "My prince."

Nat turned to Robb and extended a hand, similarly to his father. "And you! You've grown since we last met!" Robb nodded and clasped the prince's hand, "Aye, as have you."

Catelyn watched the queen out of the corner of her eye as she made her way to her brother, whispering something in his ear. How curious, what could they be discussing? She was broken from her focus at the prince's boisterous suggestion that he and his siblings be given a tour of the castle.

He was quite a funny one, she thought.

* * *

Lord Eddard Stark lead his friend, the king, Robert Baratheon down the winding stone steps into the Winterfell crypts at lamplight. The two men hadn't spoken since the altercation between the king and queen in the courtyard.

"Tell me about Jon Arryn," Ned probed, breaking the silence.

Robert sighed heavily, "One moment he was fine and…whatever it was it burned right through him…I loved that man," he concluded.

"We both did."

"Never had to teach you much but me, ha! You remember me at 16? All I wanted to do was crack skulls and fuck girls…set me right he did."

Ned gave his friend a funny look and agreed, "Aye."

Robert shook his head as the two men entered the long, dark halls of the crypt, illuminated by candlelight. "The boy loved him too, never seen him so furious as when he heard the news," he added before catching the tail end of Ned's expression.

"Oh, don't you look at me like that!" he chuckled. "It's not his fault I didn't listen!"

The two men laughed, the guttural noises echoing off the walls as they made their way past Starks long dead. As the laughter died down, Robert bore a serious expression, "I need you Ned, these times are dangerous…I need good men like Jon Arryn around me," the two men stopped. "I need men like you. Down at King's Landing not all the way up here where you're no damn use to anyone."

Ned's expression fell as Robert righted his shoulders and stood tall. "Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you the Hand of the King," he decreed.

Ned dropped to one knee, "I'm not worthy of the honor."

"I'm not trying to honor you, I'm trying to have you run the kingdom while I eat, drink, and whore my way to an early grave," Robert replied. "Damn it, Ned, stand up."

Ned complied as Robert put his hand on his shoulder. "You helped me win the Iron Throne, now help me keep the damned thing; we were meant to rule together," he told the lord of Winterfell.

Ned stared at him; expression unchanging.

"If your sister had lived, we'd have been bound by blood," the king reminded him. "Well…it's not too late for that; I've got a son, you've got a daughter, Nat and Sansa will join our houses."

The king began to walk further down the hallway, just missing Ned's surprised expression. The Warden of the North hadn't expected such a declaration when the raven arrived from King's Landing. Passing the statues atop the tombs of his ancestors, Ned pondered what they might have done in his position. The stone direwolves at their feet seemed to come alive in the lantern light.

Ned and Robert stopped at the last occupied tomb, the remainder of the hallway meant for the current Starks and their children. A granite woman stared down at the two of them, her eyes aglow in the lantern light. She was Lyanna Stark, Eddard's younger sister and Robert's former betrothed.

The king placed a feather in the hand of her statue. "Did you have to bury her in a place like this?" he choked out. "She should be on a hill somewhere with the sun and the clouds above her."

Ned looked down, paying his respects. "She was my sister, and this is where she belongs," he said firmly.

Robert reached out and brushed the cheek of the statue with his fingers, "She belonged with me…you know, in my dreams I kill him every night," he growled.

Ned glanced at Robert, "It's done; the Targaryens are all gone."

The king's eyes burned with blue fury, "Not all of them."

* * *

"I'm to what!?"

Nat Baratheon was furious. He'd been frustrated with his father already but put on a fake smile for the Starks out of respect. In fact, he'd been having a rather pleasant time with the Stark brood as the little ones showed he and his siblings around Winterfell. He'd been having a pleasant conversation with Robb Stark and admired the craftsmanship of Bran the Builder when they were interrupted by his father and Lord Stark.

Nat was surprised when he was taken to his parent's guest chamber before the feast was set to begin in the Great Hall. It was unlike his father to skip a party, and especially unlike him to have a closed-door meeting with him.

When they arrived, his mother was waiting for them, sitting at the edge of their bed with a stony look on her face. On the surface she was calm but in her eyes a fire was burning.

"You're to marry Lord Stark's daughter Sansa in the coming months; you should be pleased, she's a lovely one that girl," Robert reiterated.

Nat glanced at his mother and noticed her knuckles whitening as she tightened her grip on the edge of her dress. He could understand the feeling. As tense as his relationship with his mother could be at times, he knew she wanted nothing more than the best for her children and he appreciated it. She was a parent to him more than Robert could ever be, and she must be furious as he was at his lack of say in his marriage.

"Sansa is a child; she's no older than 13!" Nat exclaimed.

Robert paced around the chamber, "Bah! You're only 17, boy, that's hardly a gap at all."

Nat grit his teeth, rage building. Cersei noticed and grabbed his wrist, urging the prince to calm down. Unfortunately for the queen, Nat wasn't one to hold back his temper, especially when it came to his father.

"How in the Seven Hells could you propose something like this without my council!? This is my future, the future of the Seven Kingdoms you're bargaining with!" he roared.

Robert turned to Nat and glowered. "Listen here boy, this is for the future of the kingdom…you'll do well with a wife like Sansa you mark my words."

Robert was right in front of Nat now, blue eyes glaring into green. He pressed his finger sharply into Nat's chest as he spoke, "You listen here, I'm your king and you'll do as I command; you're going to marry that girl, you're going to fuck her and have plenty of babies, and you're going to stop challenging me in front of my men, understand?" he ordered.

Nat's eyes were ablaze with fury. He clenched and unclenched his fists several times, remembering his grandfather's lessons on controlling his temper. _Look at this logically, Nat_ he told himself.

Sansa was of the North which would consolidate their hold in the region. Sure, there were likely better options; one of the women of House Martell could bring Dorne back into the fray, Lord Mace of the Reach had a daughter nearer his age, and by all reports she was quite clever. But no, it would do well to maintain a hold on the North, and this would certainly do it.

And Sansa…well she was still a child by comparison, but she was quite pretty; she'd probably grow into a beautiful woman. She was anything but mature, but she had time to grow, and perhaps his influence could motivate her to lose her childish demeanor and move into a queenly role.

Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. But still, it was Nat's right to choose who to love as it was Robert's. The disrespect in stripping him of this right was nothing short of cruel in his mind, and he would not forgive Robert so easily.

"Fine," he spat.

Robert backed down and made for the door. "Now look presentable, we have a feast to attend."

**And that's chapter two. I figured I'd pop another one out while I was still in a writing mood. I understand that the format was a little wonky with the first chapter and for that I apologize! It should be fixed now.**

**So! What did you think of the second chapter? Any thoughts or comments or suggestions? Please, leave a comment and let me know. I'll be updating this sparsely due to school and life, but I'll try to finish this one if I can!**

**For now, have a good one and I'll see you in the next chapter.**

**-Munch**


	3. Fall

**Chapter Three- Fall**

Ser Jaime Lannister was exhausted. He had spent much of the day searching for his brother, the so-called "Imp" Tyrion Lannister at his sister's request. She was determined to prevent the dwarf from embarrassing their family while in the capital of the North. Jaime was happy to help but less so to march around all of Winterfell and Wintertown searching for the littlest Lannister.

As Jaime walked down the dirt streets of Wintertown, he passed a small stone and wood structure filled with the sounds of grunts, moans, and laughter. Jaime looked the building up and down before frowning.

_The whorehouse, he wouldn't have…oh, of course he would_, he thought before heading inside.

The whorehouse was packed to the brim with lecherous men and women. His shiny golden boots were pulled on by the faded wooden flooring as he entered. He certainly hoped it was ale that was sticking to them. Jaime earned catcalls from multiple men and women alike as he weaved his way past bouncing couples and whores looking for a new client.

_Tyrion you lust filled little fiend, where are you?_

Jaime made his way to a somewhat deserted hallway that had several sectioned off rooms for private transactions. The sounds of grunting men and groaning women got louder with each room he passed as did the knight's disgust.

_How you manage to visit these filth holes so frequently I'll never understand, Tyrion._

Jaime reached the end of the hallway when he spotted shaggy blonde hair through a small doorway. Sure enough, it was Tyrion, a cup of wine in his hand, a laugh in his throat, and a girl on his cock.

"Mm, it's true what they say about the northern girls," Tyrion cooed.

The whore finished her work and met Tyrion's eye, "Did you hear the king's in Winterfell?" she asked.

Tyrion made his way towards the chamber's bed and seated himself on the mattress, "I did hear something about that, yes."

The whore joined him, seating herself at the edge of the bed. "And the queen and her twin brother; they say he's the most handsome man in all the Seven Kingdoms," she continued.

Tyrion scoffed, "Oh I've heard the crown prince is _far_ more handsome than he…what about the queen's other brother?"

A coy look appeared on the girl's face, "The queen has _two_ brothers!?" she said in mock surprise. Tyrion began to disrobe slowly, maintaining eye contact with the redheaded whore with every move.

"Well yes, there's the pretty one, and there's the clever one."

The whore began tracing circles around his chest, "I hear they call him 'The Imp'".

Tyrion's mismatched eyes briefly narrowed before quickly widening as the dwarf smiled, "I hear he hates that nickname."

The whore flashed a wicked smile. "Oh, I hear he's more than earned it; I hear he's a drunken little lecher that's into all manner of perversions," she purred.

"Clever girl," Tyrion concluded as she began to laugh.

"We've been expecting you, Lord Tyrion!"

Tyrion's eyebrow rose, "Oh have you? Well the Gods gave me one blessing."

The dwarf laughed heartily as the whore began to climb atop him, only for the moment to be spoiled by his elder brother entering the room. The whore froze as Jaime held up a hand, "Oh please, don't get up on my account," he said.

The whore rolled off of Tyrion quickly, "M'Lord."

Tyrion sighed, "Must I explain to you the meaning of a closed door in a whorehouse, brother?"

Jaime flashed Tyrion his teeth as he poured himself a cup of ale, "You have much to teach me I don't doubt, but in this instance perhaps you'll forgive the interruption; our sister craves your attention."

"She has odd cravings, our sister."

"Family trait…the Starks are feasting us at sundown; please don't leave me alone with these people," Jaime nearly begged.

Tyrion grinned. "I'm sorry, I've begun feasting a bit early and this," he gestured to the whore. "Is the first of many courses."

Jaime returned his smile, "I thought you might say that, and since we're short on time…"

Jaime opened the door once more and a line of nude whores entered one-by-one, piling onto Tyrion's bed. Jaime exited with a wave, "See you at sundown."

As Jaime left his younger brother to his devices, he heard a shout of "Close the door!" from behind him. Jaime opted not to do so as a sort of punishment for wasting his day. As the knight made his way back towards Winterfell, he was sure that Cersei would not be satisfied with his search, but he didn't really care. She couldn't stay mad at him for very long, especially not when surrounded by Starks.

~0~0~0~

Catelyn Stark looked down as she worked, weaving locks of auburn hair over and under one another. Her daughter, Sansa, had asked her mother to fix her hair for the feast that evening, hoping to impress the prince, her apparent newly betrothed. As Catelyn looked down at her daughter, she couldn't help but see a younger version of herself in the girl. Not only did the two share their Tully-red hair and vivid blue eyes, but they shared a similar dreamy demeanor in their youth.

When Ned had pulled the family aside to announce Robert's proposal to betroth Sansa and Nat, the girl had been more expressive and excited than she had been in years. Growing up, Sansa had always been enthralled with stories of heroism and romance. And now with a handsome, warrior prince showing up on their doorstep it was like those stories had come alive to whisk her away from Winterfell as she so desperately desired.

Catelyn was skeptical. She didn't trust the Lannisters for a moment and couldn't quite pin down the nature of the crown prince. Depending on which of his two parents he emulated more Sansa could be in for quite a bit of trouble.

Catelyn's worrying was interrupted by Sansa.

"Do you think Nat will like me? What if he thinks I'm ugly?"

_Oh, Sansa_ thought the Stark matriarch.

Catelyn cupped her daughter's cheek before continuing to braid her hair. "The Prince is an odd one, but he doesn't strike me as stupid which is what he'd have to be to take a look at you and think you're ugly."

Sansa smiled as her mother held up a mirror to her face.

"Besides," Catelyn continued. "There's much more to love about a person than that, dear; when I married your father I didn't think much of him nor he of me but we grew to respect and love one another over time, that's what makes for a proper marriage, love."

"But the prince is _so_ handsome, don't you think?" Sansa chirped.

Catelyn sighed and gave Sansa a tired smile, resting her chin on top of her daughter's head. "Yes, my dear, he has a lovely smile."

Sansa freed her head from her mother's and turned to her, "When will we marry? Are we going to have to wait?"

"Calm yourself, dear, your father hasn't even accepted the king's offer yet."

Sansa made a face at her, "But why would he ever say no?"

Catelyn bit her tongue. Why indeed? As far as offers of marriage went, they could get no better than the crown prince of the realm. But to marry their daughter off to a Lannister? She shared her husband's hesitation.

"You would have to leave home, as would your father; you'd leave your siblings, Jeyne, me…" Catelyn trailed off, remembering how Ned had left her to fight Robert's wars twice before. Catelyn didn't think she could handle a third, much less with her oldest daughter leaving at the same time.

"Oh, but I'd be queen someday!" Sansa urged. "Please mother, you left home to come here, oh please make him say yes," she begged.

Catelyn stroked her daughter's hair, "Sansa-"

"Please, _please_, it's the only thing I ever wanted!"

Catelyn looked down into Sansa's eyes. She was still hesitant. How could she deny her daughter the prospect of becoming queen, of marrying into the royal family? She couldn't. But still, how could she knowingly send her daughter to King's Landing amidst all of the turmoil and the snakes waiting to strike at a moment's notice? She couldn't.

Catelyn sighed as she finished the braid. What could she do?

~0~0~0~

The King's feast had gone without a hitch as the moon rose over the horizon. The sound of laughter, hundreds of synchronized voices, and the slight twinge of the bard's harp echoed throughout the courtyard as Jon Snow hacked away at a practice dummy.

The bastard son of Lord Stark peered in at his half-siblings and longed to be among them. But Lady Catelyn had final say, the Starks wouldn't insult the Lord Paramount of the Seven Kingdoms by seating a bastard at their table. The fire looked warm, Jon thought. He could sense its warmth, even from the chilling courtyard.

_Not like the King would even notice me with his eyes in the waitress' tits_, Jon thought as he returned to the dummy.

"Think he's dead yet?" a surly voice called from behind him.

Jon turned and his dark eyes lit up in recognition. "Uncle Benjen!" he exclaimed before embracing the man. Benjen Stark looked his bastard nephew up and down before clasping his hand on Jon's shoulder.

"You got bigger," he thumbed the banquet hall. "I rode all day, didn't want to leave you alone with the Lannisters," he explained.

Jon nodded and turned solemnly.

"Why aren't you at the feast?"

Jon looked at his feet, "Lady Stark thought it might insult the royal family to seat a bastard in their midst."

Benjen's face fell briefly. "Well," he began. "You're always welcome at the Wall; no bastard has ever been denied a seat there."

The mention of the Wall lit a fire within the young Stark bastard. The Wall was where the criminals and rejects of society were often sentenced to take the Black and service the Seven Kingdoms in exile. To Jon Snow, it seemed to be the only place where he could truly belong.

"Take me with you when you go back!" he insisted.

"Jon-"

"Father will let me if you ask him, I know he will!"

Benjen waved at him dismissively, "The Wall isn't going anywhere."

Jon stood firm, squaring his feet with his shoulders and puffing out his chest, "I'm ready to swear your oath."

Benjen sighed in frustration. Jon was still young and didn't understand the real implications of taking up the oath of the Night's Watch. Didn't understand the things that he would be required to forfeit.

"We have no families, Jon. None of us will ever father sons."

Jon shook his head, "I don't care about that!"

"If you knew what it really meant, you might…" he turned to the banquet hall. "I'd better get inside and rescue your father from his guests, we'll talk later."

Jon frowned as he watched his uncle leave. He was ready, he was sure of it. But still, Benjen had unnerved him with his last warning. What could he have meant?

"Ah, your uncle is in the Night's Watch," came a voice from behind.

Jon whipped around and found no one. Upon lowering his gaze slightly, he was met with the sight of a small figure lurking several feet away in the dark.

"What're you doing back there?" Jon called.

The figure's head leaned back, he must be drinking wine, "Just preparing for an evening with your family- you know, I've always wanted to see the Wall."

As the figure stepped into the light, Jon made a poor effort at hiding his repulsion. The dwarf was ugly indeed. His forehead jutted out like a board that did little to hide his mismatched green and black eyes. His piercing stare was making Jon uncomfortable.

"You're Tyrion Lannister, the Queen's younger brother," Jon concluded.

Tyrion waved a hand, "Indeed, my greatest accomplishment," he pointed a finger up at Jon. "And you're Ned Stark's bastard, aren't you?"

Jon grit his teeth and turned back to his training dummy. Bastard. He hated that word.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Tyrion piped up. "Did I offend you? It's only the truth! You are a bastard."

"Lord Stark is my father," Jon growled.

Tyrion made his way towards Jon, "And Lady Stark isn't your mother which makes you a bastard. Let me give you some advice, bastard. Never forget what you are- the rest of the world will not- wear it like armor; it'll never be used to hurt you."

Jon, bastard or not, had Stark in his veins. And as with the rest of the Stark family, Jon had a quick and ferocious temper. "The hell would you know about being a bastard?" he snapped.

The littlest Lannister took another swig of his wine and made his way towards the feast "Oh, bastard…all dwarves are bastards in their father's eyes."

~0~0~0~

"BAH-hahahah!"

Catelyn smiled grimly as she observed Robert getting too friendly with a wench in their court. Lady Stark had the unfortunate honor of being seated next to the Queen Cersei as the two women watch the King fiddle around with another woman. Truly a horrifying experience. But Lady Stark had years of diplomatic experience to rely on, she could manage, just not comfortably.

"Is this your first time in the North, Your Grace?" Catelyn asked in desperation.

The queen didn't take her eyes off her husband. "Yes. Lovely country."

Catelyn smiled and turned her eyes to Sansa. She and her friend, Jeyne Poole, were giggling to one another about something. Catelyn traced their eyeline and found the two girls staring at the crown prince who was seated next to her son, Robb.

"I'm sure it's very grim, after King's Landing. I remember when Ned brought me up here for the first time," she said with a smile. The queen said nothing. Catelyn tried to think of something else to say when movement in front of their table caught her eye. It was Sansa approaching.

"Hello little dove," the queen spoke pleasantly. "My, you are a beauty; how old are you?"

Sansa smiled shyly, "Thirteen, Your Grace."

Catelyn observed as the queen looked her daughter up and down with a glance, "You're tall," the queen concluded. "Still growing?"

And there it was. The sort of backhanded comment that Catelyn had been expecting out of the queen all night. She was livid. Sansa shifted on her feet uncomfortably. The queen dared make her daughter insecure in her own home.

"I-I think so, Your Grace," Sansa replied.

"And have you bled yet?" the queen continued.

Catelyn was horrified for her daughter as she watched the smile plummet from her face. She glanced at Catelyn, eyes searching for an answer. Catelyn wanted to tell Sansa to walk away but they couldn't offend the queen with such a rude act. The Lady of Winterfell nodded to her daughter, signaling for her to answer.

"No, Your Grace," Sansa looked down.

Cersei nodded. "And your dress," she noted the craftsmanship. "Did you make it yourself?"

She was good, Catelyn had to admit. Only a woman with years of political experience could manage to so quickly destroy and rebuild someone's confidence like it was an afterthought. Sansa's smile shined as she looked back up at the queen and nodded.

"Such talent," Cersei returned her smile. "You must make something for me!"

Sansa smiled and curtsied, scurrying back to her seat to report the details of their interaction with Jeyne Poole.

"I hear we might share a grandchild someday," Cersei said, addressing Catelyn.

Catelyn returned her attention to the queen and smiled, "I hear the same."

Cersei observed as Sansa spoke to Jeyne at a speed quicker than the poor girl could possibly process, "Your daughter will do well in the capital, such a beauty shouldn't be hidden up here forever."

Catelyn sighed. If she could have it her way, Sansa wouldn't step foot near King's Landing.

~0~0~0~

"I just can't fathom how you possibly manage to feed them!" Nat chuckled, sipping his wine.

Robb grinned and laughed alongside the prince, "Oh believe me, it's quite a task."

The two heirs sat together at a table off near the right side of the hall, discussing the practicality of harboring six direwolves behind the walls of Winterfell. Nat had taken his time to settle down and put on his diplomacy mask after the heated conversation with his father and had been doing his best to engage with all of his future in-laws.

The little ones were something of a bore and Lord and Lady Stark were clearly uncomfortable in his presence, but the prince found himself to quite enjoy Robb Stark's company. Though the Stark heir was a bit reserved for Nat's taste he was surprised to find that the man had quite a good sense of humor.

It would be good to build a strong relationship with the future Warden of the North.

Nat strayed from his table etiquette training and placed an elbow on the table, placing his cheek in his palm as he addressed the young Stark. "So, tell me, what do you make of this betrothal?" he asked.

Nat grinned as Robb nearly choked on his ale. It was a question quite out of the ordinary, but the prince was genuinely interested in hearing the man's opinion. His query also served to disarm Robb Stark somewhat; by making the man more comfortable with him he could glean some useful information in their conversations.

"Well," Robb began. "I suppose there's truly no one better suited for my little sister than the heir to the Seven Kingdoms," he lied.

Nat groaned. "Oh, come on now, please be honest with me," he replied.

Robb frowned and took a deep breath, "Forgive my impudence, Prince Nat, but I'm remiss at the idea of sending my sister to the capital during these trying times- danger lurks around every corner."

Nat smiled at Robb; it was good that he didn't need much goading to speak honestly. Nat liked that. "I agree wholeheartedly," the prince declared, much to Robb's surprise. "Your sister is quite young for my taste," he tacked on.

Robb's brow furrowed at the prince's comment.

"Oh, please forgive my quick tongue!" Nat begged with feigned embarrassment, "I simply meant that Lady Sansa seems too young for marriage and the political ramble of King's Landing is all."

Robb's expression softened and he nodded in agreement. Good. Nat had him believing that he was a bit dense rather than cunning. He remembered his grandfather's lessons on diplomacy quite well, always have your enemies thinking you less intelligent than you really were. Not that Robb was his enemy, but still, it was best to not reveal his hand to anyone.

The two men were broken from their conversation by the rolling laughter of the king to their left. Nat watched as his father buried his face in the chest of a rather ample Stark wench. He rolled his eyes. As much as Nat would enjoy doing the same, he knew better than to do so publicly like this.

"The King is rather…enthusiastic?" Robb suggested.

Nat chuckled and rolled his eyes, "Fat old fool, he should know better than to dishonor your family and mine like this."

Robb smiled nervously. "I'm sure father doesn't take any offense, the two of them have been friends quite a long time, you know."

Nat sighed and glanced towards Lord Stark. He knew very well. "Yes well, hopefully your father gets used to the sight or I'll have to get used to that," the prince gestured to Ned's uncomfortable expression, "gracing me every day back home."

The two men laughed as Nat noticed a movement through his narrowed eyes. It was his betrothed, Sansa Stark, failing miserably at looking aloof while she stared at him. The prince snorted before recomposing himself and locking eyes with the eldest Stark daughter. Her cheeks quickly became as red as her hair as he flashed her a dazzling smile that he had spent months working on in his youth. She quickly broke their eye contact and began gushing to the girl on her left.

Robb was watching a tense interaction between his father and Jaime Lannister before he noticed the prince's model smile. Robb glanced over his shoulder and noticed his sister and Jeyne Poole giggling to themselves and sighed.

"Oh, don't torment the poor girl like that," he begged.

Nat opened his mouth to laugh when a clump of pigeon pie had landed itself right between the eyes of Sansa Stark. The girl gasped before turning to her sister, Arya Stark, with a fiery vengeance.

"ARYA!" she screeched as the pie landed in her lap, ruining the fabric of her dress.

Nat began to double over with laughter as the youngest Stark girl feebly attempted to hide her deadly spoon. Robb chuckled as his mother caught his eye and nodded towards his sisters. Understanding, the Stark heir made his way toward Arya and looped his arm around her waist.

"Time for bed," he declared before walking off with the girl.

The prince wiped a tear from his eye as he watched his soon to be brother-in-law carry off his soon to be sister-in-law. He was beginning to like the Starks very much.

~0~0~0~

A slender woman with silver-gold hair stood before an open window, the Narrow Sea below her. Her violet eyes scanned the horizon, almost as though she could see the shores of Westeros from where she was standing. Daenerys Targaryen, the only daughter of the Mad King Aerys II Targaryen and his sister-wife Queen Rhaella, stood in a small room in Pentos, longing for the life that was stolen from her during Robert's Rebellion.

House Targaryen had ruled the Seven Kingdoms for over 300 years with fire and blood before Robert Baratheon, the Usurper, had thrown the continent into chaos and slaughtered her family. Well, all but herself and her older brother Viserys. The two of them had been living in exile for nearly two decades, traveling the continent of Essos where they had no birthright, no throne, no kingdom.

"Where's my sweet sister?" a shrill voice called from behind her.

Her elder brother walked towards her holding what appeared to be some sort of white gown. Viserys, like the rest of their family, had the high-cheekbones, silver-gold hair, and lilac eyes as their ancestors from Valyria. As he walked towards her Daenerys thought that Viserys had grown even more gaunt than he had been before, though she was unsurprised. Living in exile, begging for food and shelter would do that to a man.

"Daenerys!" he chirped. "There's our bride to be! Look here- a gift from Illyrio. Touch it. Come on, feel the fabric."

Daenerys did as he instructed and traced the white fabric with her thin fingers. It was soft and delicate. Though she didn't care for it much knowing what it was for.

"Isn't Illyrio a gracious host?"

Daenerys passed the dress back to her brother, violet eyes locking onto his pale ones, "We've been his guests for over a year now and he's never asked us for anything," she agreed.

Viserys smiled, "Illyrio is no fool! He knows I'll remember my friends when I come into my throne," Viserys hung the dress on a hook and turned to Daenerys, frowning. "You still slouch."

With a swift motion Viserys slipped Daenerys' dress from her shoulders and analyzed her slender figure. "You have a woman's body now- I need you to be perfect today, can you do that for me?" he asked.

Daenerys covered her breasts and turned away from her brother to his displeasure.

Viserys placed a hand on her shoulder and gripped tight, "You wouldn't want to wake the dragon now, would you?" he said, lowering his voice.

Daenerys ground her teeth. She and Viserys had gotten along in their youth, but as the two grew older and Viserys grew more impatient, he began to become more and more unstable. Abuse was inevitable with him, and he had begun to use the phrase "waking the dragon" as a warning as to not trigger his rage.

"No," she breathed quietly.

"Good!" he chirped, stroking her head with fake affection. "When they write the history of my reign, sweet sister, they will say it began today!" he declared, exiting the room.

Daenerys turned to her bath. It was steaming now. She tightened her hands into fists, expelling her anger slowly as she waded into the bath.

"My lady, it's too hot!" her chambermaid warned.

Daenerys sank low into the bath and turned to her, expressionless, "It's scalding."

~0~0~0~

Brandon Stark, middle son of Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard Stark, ran throughout the courtyards of Winterfell with his direwolf, Summer. He'd had quite a pleasant time at the King's feast the previous evening and was looking forward to a day of exploring and climbing, though he'd been sure to avoid telling his mother about the last bit. She was probably too busy anyways, readying Sansa for her journey south. And with his father out hunting with the King, there was only Maester Llewyn to worry about receiving a scolding from.

Bran and Summer came to stop below the broken tower, the remnants of what was once Winterfell's tallest watchtower and a personal favorite climbing spot of Bran's. Bran smiled at the structure. Since he would be joining his father in King's Landing, he thought it would be a fun to climb the old tower one last time.

Bran began to climb, fingering stones and pulling himself higher and higher as Summer whinnied below. As Bran neared the caved in summit, he began to hear strange noises emanating from within the structure. It sounded like grunting and groaning. Intriguing. Bran peeked over the edge of the jagged summit and saw that the noises were coming from the queen. Bran had discovered the queen in an act of intimacy…but the king was not with her, he was out hunting with his father. No, it was the queen's own twin brother, Jaime Lannister, that was with her in the tower.

Bran's eyes went wide as Cersei looked up and locked onto him.

The queen grabbed her brother's chest, "Stop, STOP!"

Realizing that he'd been caught, Bran quickly made to climb down the tower, but he was much too slow. Within a moment Jaime Lannister had him held up in the opening of the broken tower.

"Are you completely mad?" he breathed.

"He saw us! He SAW us!" the queen squealed, pulling the folds of her dress into her chest.

"It's alright," Jaime reassured her. "Well, you're quite the little climber, aren't you?" he grumbled to Bran. "How old are you, boy?"

"Ten."

Bran glanced between the queen and her brother as they shared a brief look. Before long Jaime shrugged and turned to Bran.

"The things I do for love."

~0~0~0~

**That's the end of Chapter 3! What did you think? I want to thank everyone for all the reviews that have been coming in thus far, they've been a pleasure to read and I hope you continue to do so as I continue to update this story.**

**I've decided to continue with it though I have no promises on how frequently I'll be updating the story or even if I'll be able to finish it with school starting up again soon. But for now, we're going to go for as long as we can, because I'm really enjoying this story!**

**So, what are your theories for how the character arcs are going to continue? How are things going to go with Nat and the rest of the royal family? Thus far the story has been relatively similar to cannon but soon we'll be seeing the effects that Nat has on the world of Westeros!**

**Let me know what you're thinking! Have a great one, and I'll see you in the next chapter.**

**-Munch**


	4. A Stroll Upon the Kingsroad

**Chapter Four- A Stroll Upon the Kingsroad**

Crown Prince Nat Baratheon opened his eyes and groaned. Today they were heading back to King's Landing, and he would have to deal with his father's incessant whining about their travel speed once again. As the prince began to pull on his back trousers, he heard a commotion in the halls outside his chamber.

_Who in the Seven Hells is making such a ruckus outside of my door at this hour?_ he thought to himself.

As the prince made to open the door he stopped in his tracks, the whispering in the halls just barely audible from within his chambers. Rather than scold the castle servants for disturbing him the prince deigned to listen in on their conversation.

"They say the young lord will never walk again," the first voice said mournfully.

Nat's blood ran cold. He'd offered his condolences to the Starks when Maester Luwin found Bran Stark twitching beneath the broken tower of Winterfell. It was tragic to say the least, the boy having fallen from his favorite climbing spot. Nat was certainly no maester, but he'd taken it as a good sign that the boy was breathing at all when they'd found him. Never walking again. He could hardly imagine it.

"Oh, but he'll live, won't he?" the second voice asked.

The first voice scoffed, "If you call that living."

The voices moved further down the hall, cutting off the prince's ability to listen in on their conversation. He exhaled and pressed his back to the wooden door of his chamber.

_Oh, that poor lad, to be bedridden for the rest of his days? At only ten? I should check in on his condition before we go, if not for his sake then for his mother's_ the prince concluded.

The prince quickly dressed, putting on his fine onyx and gold trimmed robes swiftly and his ceremonial armor less-so. As the prince examined his knot work in the mirror, he noticed the traces of a beard touching his cheeks and frowned. He'd never looked very good with a beard. Myrcella had called him dashing the first time he'd grown it out, but Nat had thought it made him look pudgy as it hid his jawline and rounded out his face. His mother agreed. He'd need to shave before long or else he'd look like less like a prince and more like a rather small bear.

With a curt nod to his reflection, Nat left his chambers and made his way through the residence apartments at Winterfell, retracing his steps from the castle tour the Stark children had given him a few weeks prior. He stopped at an ancient looking wooden door in the Great Keep, knocking quickly before entering.

Upon his entering Maester Luwin bowed, "My Prince," he greeted.

"Maester," Nat nodded, looking further into the chamber at the bedridden Bran Stark and the exhausted figure of his mother. The prince approached cautiously, clearing his throat at the end of Bran's bed.

"My Lady," he murmured softly.

Catelyn glanced at the prince and nodded slightly in his direction before returning to her weaving. From the looks of it, the object was prayer web from the Faith of the Seven.

"I…came to check in on Brandon's condition, my Lady," Nat said hesitantly.

"The fall badly damaged his spine," Maester Luwin interjected. "I fear he'll never walk again."

At the maester's suggestion a weak sob burst from Catelyn's throat. The prince's emerald eyes nearly watered at the sound of it. There was no worse sound than a mother's weeping for her children.

"He'll live though, won't he maester?"

Maester Luwin fumbled with his fingers, "I believe so, but I can hardly say how long it will take for the boy to wake, m'lord."

Nat circled Catelyn's chair and knelt by Bran's bed, placing a comforting hand on her forearm. "My Lady, whatever your family might need from the Crown you'll have it, and rest assured, I'll fight the Gods to save your son if need be," he told her.

Catelyn gave the prince a small, bitter smile, "Thank you, My Prince, I wish you luck in your battle with the Gods."

Nat gave her the warmest smile he could muster before standing, "Thank you Lady Catelyn, I'll need it…I'll leave you to tend to your son, I do sincerely hope to see you both again."

With his farewells said, Nat bowed his head to Catelyn and made his way out of the room.

_Consoling mothers isn't quite my strong suit…I almost wish we had never come to Winterfell, perhaps then the boy would have been doing something other than climbing that cursed tower_

~0~0~0~

At the same time, Lord Tyrion Lannister rolled over in the Winterfell kennels, dogs slobbering in the hay at his feet. Oh, he was very drunk last night. Very drunk indeed. He garbled as he sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"Better looking bitches than you're used to, Uncle," came the voice of his least favorite nephew. "My mother's been looking for you; we ride for King's Landing today."

Tyrion opened his eyes and frowned at the scrawny figure of his second nephew, Joffrey Baratheon, and the much larger figure of his bodyguard, Sandor Clegane, standing over him. Tyrion staggered to his feet and faced his nephew.

"Before we leave, you'll call on Lord and Lady Stark and offer them your sympathies," he instructed.

The prince scoffed, "What good will my sympathies do them?"

Tyrion stretched, "None, but it is expected of you as it is of your brother, I'm sure he's already done his duty."

Joffrey rolled his eyes, "That boy means nothing to me, nor do the affairs of my boar of a brother- uck, I can't stand the wailing of women-".

Before the second eldest prince of the realm could rant any longer, Tyrion wound back and slapped the boy across the face. Joffrey brought a palm up to his cheek in shock, how dare the Imp?

Tyrion held up a finger, "One word and I'll slap you again."

Joffrey's face welled with rage, "I'm telling Mother-"

Tyrion backhanded his other cheek. Joffrey, in all his princely glory, began to whimper as he cupped the fresh stinging on his cheek. Joffrey's face quickly morphed as the shock of Tyrion's slap subsided. Tyrion stared his nephew down, refusing to cow to the prince's glare.

"Go! Tell her, but first you will go to Lord and Lady Stark and you will fall on your knees in front of them and tell them how very sorry you are, that you are at their service, and that all your prayers are with them- do you understand?" Tyrion ordered.

Joffrey, unfortunately, did not follow instructions easily, "You can't-"

Tyrion slapped Joffrey once more, "Do. You. Understand?"

Joffrey stamped his feet, huffed, and stormed off. Tyrion thought he looked like a jester with his ceremonial sword flapping about at his side. Strangely, the prince's bodyguard Sandor Clegane hadn't followed him.

"The prince will remember that, little lord," he rumbled in warning.

Tyrion smiled, "Well I should hope so! It seems that Nat and I are the only ones willing to discipline the petulant little prince in this family," Tyrion yawned and stretched once more. "And should he forget, I trust you'll be a good dog and remind him!"

With that, the littlest Lannister walked off towards the Great Hall for breakfast.

_What do I really have to fear from a boy that will never be king?_

~0~0~0~

Servants rushed about within the Great Hall as they prepared a multi-course meal for the royal family. Tyrion weaved between the rushing legs of scullions as he made for the table where the rest of his family was seated.

Pulling out a chair to sit, Tyrion flagged down one of the servants with his order, "Bread- and two of those little fish," the Lannister ordered. "Oh, and a mug of dark beer to wash it down, with some bacon, burnt black."

"Little brother," Jaime nodded with a smile.

"Beloved siblings," Tyrion smiled in return. "Ah! And my even more beloved niece and nephews!"

"Good morning Uncle," Tommen and Myrcella greeted warmly.

Nat, arms crossed and waiting for his meal gave his uncle a quick two-fingered salute, accompanied by his famous and ever-charming Lion's Grin. Tyrion had nicknamed the crown prince's signature show-smile years prior as he thought his nephew looked quite like a lion baring its teeth when he put it on.

"Is Bran going to die?" Myrcella asked, cocking her head to the right.

Tyrion nearly choked on the tension that filled the room. Exchanging an awkward glance with Nat, Tyrion righted himself in his chair and shook his head with a smile. "Apparently not," he replied.

Cersei shifted uncomfortably in her seat as her youngest children smiled happily, a shift Tyrion made a mental note of. "What do you mean?" the queen asked.

Nat leaned back in his chair and yawned, "He means that the fall didn't kill the little lord, mother- the maester told me so himself not an hour ago," he confirmed.

Both Nat and Tyrion watched as Jaime and Cersei exchanged an odd glance.

"Though he also told me the boy would never walk again," the prince continued.

At the revelation of the young Stark's crippling, Tommen gasped. "Oh, that's not true, brother! That would be awful!"

Nat gave Tommen a sad smile, leaning over the table to look at his younger brother. "I'm afraid it is, the maester would know better than we would, little one."

Cersei folded her arms in her lap. "It's no mercy, letting a child linger in such pain," she said dismissively.

At this notion, the crown prince frowned. Was his mother seriously suggesting it would have been better that Bran Stark died? "Did you feel the same way when I was stricken with fever as a boy, mother?" he asked.

Cersei shuddered at the reminder of the illness. She had never been more worried in her life than when Nat had come down with fever in his infancy. In a small capacity, her heart went out to Catelyn Stark, imagining the suffering the mother must be going through. But in a much larger capacity, she stood by her statement.

"Of course not, but unlike Bran Stark, your pain was only temporary, you beat the fever within a few days," she said.

Nat's eyes narrowed. As he suspected, she was implying that it'd be better to let the child die. Truly a disturbing sentiment.

"Well only the gods know for sure, all the rest of us can do is pray," Tyrion interposed, reducing the tension that had been building. "The charms of the North seem entirely lost on you," he told the queen.

She scoffed, "I still can't believe you're going; it's ridiculous, even for you."

Nat raised an eyebrow. Going?

Tyrion smiled at his sister, "Oh come now, where's your sense of wonder? The greatest structure ever built, the intrepid men of the Night's Watch, the wintery abode of the White Walkers."

"You're going to the Wall?" Nat interjected.

Tyrion turned to the prince and smiled. "I am!"

Nat stared at his uncle, slack jawed. As much as Nat enjoyed touring the Seven Kingdoms, he wanted no part in the Wall. A dark and dreary place like that? No, the prince was much more equipped for the sunny weather of the South.

"Good luck with that," he told his uncle dismissively.

Tyrion smiled wider. He could understand their hesitation with his traveling to the Wall. Though it was certainly a magnificent structure, the gruff men of the Night's Watch were made up of criminals and hooligans. In combination with the frigid cold of the far north and the lack of a luxury brothel it was certainly a difficult place to live.

"Tell me you aren't thinking of taking the black?" Jaime joked.

Tyrion spread his hands out in mock shock, "And go celibate!? The whores would go begging from Dorne to Casterly Rock! I just want to stand atop the Wall and piss off the edge of the world."

Tommen and Myrcella giggled at their uncle' lewd suggestions. Tyrion's joking had even earned a smile out of the crown prince who was in anything but a joking mood. The queen on the other hand, was not so tickled.

"The children don't need to hear your filth, come."

The queen stood and strode out of the room, Tommen and Myrcella following her like ducks in a line. Nat glanced between his uncles and sighed, standing up and following his mother and siblings out of the room, not wanting to invoke her frustration.

"Even if the boy lives, he'll be grotesque; give me a good, clean death any day," Jaime declared.

Tyrion shook his head, "Speaking for the grotesque, I'd have to disagree. Death is so final, whereas life…is full of possibilities. I hope the boy does wake; I'd be interested to hear what he has to say."

Jaime narrowed his eyes and looked down, almost whispering, "My dear brother, there are times you make me wonder whose side you're on."

Tyrion gripped his chest in a dramatic showing of his pain, "My dear brother! You wound me; you know how much I love my family."

The two Lannister brothers sat in silence as a servant brought Tyrion his dark beer to accompany the warm meal now before him on the table in the Great Hall.

~0~0~0~

Catelyn Stark was having a very bad week. The royal family's visit was stressful enough, but to have her husband and oldest daughter stolen away from her at the same time? She could hardly bear it. And now one of her youngest, only ten years old, was crippled for life. A bad week was putting it mildly.

As she continued to weave her prayer web beside Bran's bedside, the sound of footsteps entering the room approached from behind her. Turning, Catelyn was surprised to see the graceful figure of Queen Cersei Lannister standing before her.

Catelyn quickly made to stand and bow before the queen only to be dismissed, "Please," Cersei told her, holding up a palm. Catelyn exhaled and sat back down in her seat beside Bran.

"I apologize, if I had known you would be coming, I would have dressed more appropriately, Your Grace," Catelyn said.

"This is your home," Cersei reassured. "I am your guest."

The queen paused, shifting her gaze to the unconscious Bran.

"Handsome one, isn't he?" Cersei smiled. "I almost lost my first boy…the little fighter, he fought every single day to beat the fever," the queen revealed.

Catelyn's eyes widened. "I-I never knew…"

Cersei gazed at the Stark matriarch. "It was many years ago…Robert was rather somber, other times he was crazed, beat his hands bloody on the walls; all the things men do to show you that they care," she trailed off in reflection.

The queen shook her head and readjusted her posture. "Nat's just like him, I'm sure you noticed. Just as strong and brave as Robert was in his youth, but back then he was such a little thing, like a bird without feathers…Robert held me when the maesters said he wasn't going to live- I screamed and I battled and Robert held me- thankfully, my little boy is a fighter."

Cersei's eyes were full of sympathy as she looked into Catelyn's, "I hope that yours is as well, I pray to the Mother every morning and night that she return you to your child."

"I am grateful."

Cersei turned to leave, "Perhaps she can afford two miracles."

The queen left shortly after to Catelyn's relief. The crown prince had almost died, she could never have imagined that the queen would tell her such a personal story. As distrustful as Catelyn was of the queen and her brothers, her story truly meant something to the Stark matriarch as she sat in silence beside her son. Perhaps the Mother would be able to wake Bran for her?

More footsteps interrupted Catelyn's wondering as Jon Snow entered the room, unannounced.

"I…came to say goodbye to Bran," he said hesitantly.

"You've said it."

Jon Snow was unfazed by Catelyn's remark, treading further into the room and kneeling at Bran's bedside. Jon put a hand on Bran's forehead and pushed back his brown bangs slightly.

"I wish I could be here when you wake up…I'm going north with Uncle Benjen, I'm taking the black," he told the boy. "I know we always talked about seeing the wall together, but you'll be able to come and visit me at Castle Black when you're better, I'll know my way around by then- I'll be a sworn brother of the Night's Watch. We can even go out walking beyond the Wall, if you're not afraid."

As Jon leaned down to kiss his brother goodbye, Catelyn's eyes welled with hatred. The two made eye contact, not even noticing the presence of Lord Eddard Stark as he entered the room.

"I. Want you. To leave," Catelyn ordered.

Jon Snow glanced at his father in the doorframe, before nodding to no one and solemnly leaving the room. Ned closed the door behind him and walked over to his wife and son, sitting beside them at the edge of the bed.

The tears in Catelyn's eyes began to fall. "17 years ago, you rode off with Robert Baratheon. A year later you came back with another woman's son. And now you're leaving me again," she wept.

"I have no choice-"

Catelyn shook her head. "Men _always_ say that when honor calls! That's what you tell your families, tell yourselves," she continued. "You do have a choice…and you've made it."

Ned reached out, "Cat-"

She brushed him away. "I can't do it, Ned. I really can't."

"You can. You must."

With no more words exchanged between them, Ned stood and exited the room, leaving a weeping Catelyn beside their bedridden son.

~0~0~0~

Nat stroked Ser Trot's mane as the party prepared to leave Winterfell and make the long journey down the Kingsroad to the capital. As he tended to the animal, he felt a hand clasp his shoulder. Turning, the prince found a somber looking Robb Stark staring up at him.

"Ah, Robb, come to see us off?" he smiled.

The Stark heir nodded, staring directly into the prince's eyes. "Make sure my sister is protected down south, she's never been, and it'll be hostile territory for a young girl like her," he requested.

Nat flashed his Lion's Grin and patted the man on the back. "You needn't worry, I may be the king's son but unlike the old buffoon I remember my manners around a lady; your sister will fair fine, I assure you."

This seemed to set Robb at ease. With a short nod and a wish of safe travels, the man turned and made his way back into the walls of Winterfell. _It seems honor runs deep in the Stark family_ the prince thought as he watched him leave.

"Still mingling with Northmen, I see," a shrill voice commented.

Nat's eyebrow twitched as he turned to face the figure of his brother, Joffrey, sitting rather unceremoniously atop his stallion. He was in no mood to deal with the little prince's attitude.

"As a matter of fact, _Joff_, I am," he quipped.

Nat thought Joffrey's temper was much more in-tune with his Baratheon roots than his own as the simplest taunt could set the young prince off. One of the easiest ways to do so was by mocking his mother's nickname for the boy. It took no longer than a moment for Joffrey to become a smaller, screechy voiced version of their father.

"Well! You'll never see _me_ interacting with such barbarians! And neither should you! What kind of prince would stoop so low as to associate with the likes of backwards savages like Northerners!? You've disgraced our family name!" he roared.

Nat waved his brother off lazily. "Yes, yes, _Joff,_ trot along now and I'll join you in a moment."

Joffrey hadn't looked so red in quite a long while, Nat thought. With a huff, the prince rode off for the front of the party, no doubt looking to tattle to their mother. Nat shook his head and adjusted Ser Trot's saddle. As much as he enjoyed teasing Joffrey, he was growing concerned with the prince's lack of maturity. It was unbecoming of the royal family to have public outbursts like that, much less ones that insulted entire kingdoms. The prince sighed, mounting his steed, he wished Jon Arryn were alive to help the boy. He could use some guidance.

~0~0~0~

Two weeks into their journey, the King's party stopped to set up camp in the Barrowlands along the Kingsroad. Lord Eddard Stark sat at a small wooden table lined with wine and food, watching from afar as his friend, King Robert Baratheon, relieved himself against the bark of a tree far from the rest of their party.

"Ah!" Robert said, pulling up his trousers. "_This_ is country! I've half a mind to leave them all behind and keep going, I swear Ned, I'll go mad at this pace!"

Ned smiled. "I've half a mind to join you."

Robert grinned cheekily at his old friend. "What do you say? Just you and me on the Kingsroad, swords at our sides, a couple of tavern wenches to warm our beds tonight?"

Ned grunted and looked away. "You should have asked me 20 years ago, Robert."

Robert sulked. "There were wars to fight, women to marry…we never had the chance to be young."

Ned crossed his arms on the table. "There were a few chances, I recall."

Robert smiled wide once more. "Ah yes there was that one…oh what was her name? That common girl of yours…Becca? The one with the great big tits you could bury your face in!"

Ned shook his head. "Bessie; she was one of yours."

Robert guffawed and smacked his hand on the table. "Bessie! Thank the gods for Bessie and her tits!"

Ned smiled, thinking Robert was quite done. His smile faded quickly when Robert went on. "Who was yours? Aleena? No. You told me once…Meryl? Your bastard's mother," he implored.

"Wylla," Ned murmured.

Robert snapped in remembrance. "Wylla! That was the one…she must have been a rare wench to make Lord Eddard Stark forget his honor…you never did tell me what she looked like," he commented.

Ned looked away, "Nor will I."

Robert leaned over the table and grasped his friend's shoulder. "We were at war, Ned," he consoled. "None of us knew if we were coming back home, you're too hard on yourself, you always have been."

Ned looked at his feet, clearly disagreeing.

Robert sighed in exasperation. "I swear if I weren't king, you'd have hit me already."

Ned smiled at his toes. "That was the worst thing about your coronation…I'll never get to hit you again."

Robert's brow fell low over his eyes. "Trust me, that's not the worst thing…there was a rider in the night," he informed Ned, pulling a sealed paper from his belt and sliding it across the table.

Ned unfurled the paper, what could have the king so grim? Scanning the lines, Ned found nothing to concern himself with. One of the last Targaryens, a young girl by the name of Daenerys, had wed a Dothraki Khal in Essos.

"So, Daenerys Targaryen has wed some Dothraki horse lord? Shall we send them a wedding gift?" Ned teased.

Robert was no longer in a joking mood. "A knife perhaps…a good sharp one and bold man to wield it."

Ned rolled his eyes. "She's nothing more than a child, Robert."

Robert curled his fingers into a fist on the table. "Soon enough that child will spread her legs and start breeding."

Ned could feel the anger emanating from his old friend. He could understand the man's pain. The Targaryens were responsible for the deaths of their fathers and Ned's sister, Robert's betrothed, Lyanna Stark. When Robert was coronated, he spared no expense to ensure that every Targaryen was wiped from the face of the Earth. Only the young prince Viserys and the yet to be born princess Daenerys had been able to escape the king's wrath.

"We're not speaking of this," Ned concluded.

Robert's face was Lannister red as he stood up, "Oh it's _unspeakable_ to you?" he thrusted a finger out. "I'll tell you what's unspeakable! What's unspeakable is what her father did to your family, that was unspeakable! What Rhaegar Targaryen did to your sister, the woman I loved…I'll kill every last Targaryen I get my hands on, Ned."

"Can't get your hands on this one, can you?"

"This Khal Drogo of hers, it's said he has 100,000 men in his horde!"

Ned sighed. "Robert even a million Dothraki are no threat to the realm as long as they remain on the other side of the sea, they have no ships, Robert!" he pointed out.

The king shook his head and sat down with a huff. "There are those in the realm who still call me 'Usurper' as my son was so kind to point out to my men…if that Targaryen boy crosses the Narrow Sea with a Dothraki horde at his back, the scum will join him."

"He will not cross," Ned reassured him. "And if by chance he does, we'll throw him back into the sea."

Robert looked towards the horizon grimly. "There's a war coming, Ned. I don't know when or who we'll be fighting but it's coming."

~0~0~0~

Across the Narrow Sea, Daenerys Targaryen was admiring her wedding gifts, three in particular. The new khaleesi of the Dothraki horde stared at three petrified dragon eggs, gifted to her by her former host Illyrio Mopatis as a wedding gift. As she observed the eggs, her handmaidens cleaned and treated the wounds she acquired from her new husband, Khal Drogo, in their marital bed.

"Have you ever seen a dragon?" she asked.

"Dragon gone, Khaleesi," replied Irri.

Daenerys looked back at the girl, "Everywhere? Even in the East?"

Irri nodded back at her, "No dragon. Brave men kill them. It is known."

"It is known," Jhiqui confirmed.

Doreah wiped at Daenerys' palm and smiled at the khaleesi, "A trader from Garth told me that dragons come from the moon."

Daenerys narrowed her eyes skeptically, "The moon?" she asked.

"He told me that the moon was an egg, Khaleesi, that there were once two moons in the sky. But one wandered too close to the sun and cracked from the heat," Doreah explained. "Out of it poured a thousand dragons and they drank the sun's fire."

Irri rolled her eyes, "Moon is no egg. Moon is goddess, wife of sun- it is known."

"It is known," Jhiqui affirmed.

Daenerys waved them away, "Leave me with her."

Jhiqui and Irri shared a glance before bowing and leaving Daenerys and Doreah alone in the tent. "Why did the trader from Garth tell you these stories?" she pressed further.

Doreah smiled. "Men like to talk when they're happy. Before your brother bought me for you, it was my job to make men happy."

Daenerys raised an eyebrow before the realization dawned on her. She opened her mouth to speak, hesitantly, "How old were you?"

"I was nine when my mother sold me to the pleasure house."

Daenerys was taken aback, "Nine!?"

Doreah shook her head. "I did not touch a man for three years, Khaleesi," she reassured. "First you must learn."

Daenerys considered her comment for a moment. She must learn to make men happy. She thought by letting the khal have his way with her she was making him happy…was she wrong?

"Can you teach me how to make the khal happy?" she asked Doreah.

"Yes."

"And will it take three years?" Daenerys pressed.

Doreah laughed. "No, Khaleesi."

Then it was settled then. Daenerys leaned back in her chair as Doreah continued to treat her injuries. She would learn how to please the khal and thus earn the khal's love and respect. Perhaps she would not become a queen like she had dreamed as a child. But she would become a powerful khaleesi, that she was sure of.

~0~0~0~

Sansa Stark strolled through the encampment with her direwolf, Lady, at her side. The soon to be bride was dressed in her finest blue silks and had her Tully-auburn hair brushed out until it glittered in the sunlight. Sansa had been given the great honor of riding in the carriage with the queen, Cersei Lannister, on their journey south to King's Landing. If there was one thing that the young Stark was determined to do, it was present herself appropriately in front of the queen.

Though she had other reasons for looking her best as well. One reason specifically. A reason that was tall and handsome and strong and had the loveliest green eyes that Sansa had ever seen.

The girl blushed at the thought of her future husband. _Husband_. Such a foreign word to her, but she was beginning to warm up to it. When Nat had appeared in his shiny onyx armor atop a regal steed in the courtyard of her home, it was like a scene out of a fairytale. As she observed him over the last several weeks, she had grown even more infatuated with the man. He was polite to her servants and had the most charming smile she had ever seen. She enjoyed hearing his rolling laugh, it reminded her of the king's if not a bit more energetic. Though she had only spoken to the prince a few short times, she was sure he was going to be the best king the realm had seen in ages. And more importantly, the ideal husband for her.

_Just look pretty and don't mess up_, Sansa chided herself. _You need to show the prince that you'll be the perfect wife and mother to his children._

Sansa and Lady made their way past the Crossroads Inn, noticing as it bustled with activity. The inn was housing hundreds of her father's men in addition to the numerous guests it was already housing for the night. Men and women rushed in and out of the structure as the two she-wolves trotted by.

As Sansa continued on, she noticed a small crowd gathering about the queen's carriage, though the source of their attention was blocked from her view. What she did notice, were the queen's handmaidens passing her by, each more beautiful than the last. Sansa stared in admiration as she walked, failing to notice the large, burly man standing in front of her until it was too late.

"Oh!" Sansa exclaimed. "Pardon me, Ser."

The burly man said nothing, staring down the young lady as she slowly backed away from him. She had barely taken three steps before bumping into an even larger man. Meaty hands gripped her shoulders and turned her around. Sansa looked up into the eyes of Joffrey Baratheon's personal guard, Sandor Clegane, otherwise known as the Hound.

"Do I frighten you so much girl?" Sandor questioned her. "Or is it him there making you shake? I fear him too- look at that face."

Sansa turned back to the burly man and bowed her head slightly, "I'm sorry if I've offended you, Ser," the man said nothing, staring her down. Sansa turned back to the Hound, "Why won't he speak to me?"

A smile stitched its way across Sandor's face, revealing slightly yellowed, crooked teeth, "He hasn't talked much these last twenty years, since the Mad King ripped his tongue out with pincers."

Sansa gasped, horrified.

"The poor fellow can only speak with his sword now, I'm afraid," a deep voice said from behind. Sansa peeked out from behind the Hound to see none other than the crown prince, Nat Baratheon, approaching her in all his regal glory.

The prince wore tan robes beneath his finely crafted leather vest. A black overcoat embroidered with golden stitches decorated his shoulders and proudly declared the prince to be of House Baratheon. He wore the very same smile that had made Sansa swoon on his face as he strode towards her.

"Ser Illyn Payne doesn't intend to be rude, my lady, he's earned himself quite a fearsome reputation as the King's Justice- the royal executioner, that is," Nat explained, noticing the confused expression on Sansa's face.

_Well I mustn't be rude in front of my betrothed_ Sansa thought to herself, turning back to Illyn Payne.

"I apologize for running into you, Ser Illyn," she curtsied. "And if I've offended you with my ignorance."

Ser Illyn merely nodded, backing away until he eventually disappeared in the sea of people traversing the campgrounds. Sansa sighed with relief. Despite Nat's explanation, the man was still rather unsettling.

"Are you uncomfortable, Lady Sansa? Is it the Hound?" Nat queried, leaning down to her. "Between you and me, I think he's rather scary myself with those ugly scars on his face, they're unsettling, aren't they?" the prince whispered.

Sansa went beet red with the prince's face so near her own. She thought he smelled quite sweet, like honey. Realizing that she hadn't given the prince an answer, Sansa quickly nodded before turning away lest Nat notice her embarrassment.

Nat patted Sandor on the back before motioning for him to leave with his hand. Taking the hint, the Hound grunted and shuffled off, armor clinking as he made for the Crossroads Inn grumpily.

Nat looked down and smiled. Sansa had her hands on her cheeks which were redder than her hair. _Oh, this poor girl is quite taken with me already, eh?_ he thought to himself. Shaking his head, Nat turned to the canine at Sansa's feet, crouching down to greet her.

"What might I call this fine creature?" he said aloud.

Sansa looked up from her hands and composed herself, breathing in deeply, "This is Lady, my direwolf," she explained, rubbing the direwolf between her ears.

Sansa watched the prince smile widely as he reached out towards Lady. The direwolf smelled his extended fingers cautiously before bowing her head to the prince, allowing him to stroke her snout. The prince laughed heartily and scratched her behind her ears.

"She's magnificent!" he cried.

"Yes," Sansa agreed. "But, not quite as magnificent as yourself, my prince," she added quickly.

Nat began to laugh harder, much to Sansa's disappointment. Standing up to his full, towering height, the Prince waved in apology. "Forgive me, I've just never received such a compliment from a lady as fair as you!"

Sansa felt her cheeks grow hot.

Nat flashed her a shiny grin and extended his elbow to her, "Would you mind if I joined the two of you on your walk, my lady? It's a lovely day."

Sansa returned his smile and interlocked her arm with his, "I would enjoy nothing more, my dear prince."

~0~0~0~

The sweet scent of spring flowers wafted through the air as Crown Prince Nat Baratheon and his betrothed, Lady Sansa Stark, strode along the riverbanks of the Barrowlands. The sun reflected off the waters in a glittering array as the two noble figures walked.

"I see, well I'm sure you won't find the same issue in King's Landing, we've all the resources in Westeros at our disposal!" Nat harped.

Sansa smiled sweetly, "I wouldn't doubt it, my prince…oh I'm just so excited to finally see the capital with my own eyes! I've heard the Red Keep is simply unbelievable!"

Nat smiled down at her, "I certainly think so, but you can only take my word lightly, after all I've lived there all my-"

The sound of a skirmish caught the prince's ear. He stepped forward, turning his head to the sound. It was unmistakable. He could hear grunts and shouts ahead of them. There was some sort of armed conflict happening.

"What is it, my prince?" Sansa asked nervously.

Nat reached to his belt and brought out a long dagger. He kept the short weapon with him in case of trouble when not in his armor. He was never very fond of knives, but he thought it a better alternative to lugging around his broadsword in his linens and wools.

"Someone is fighting just ahead, stay behind me," he ordered.

The pair tread forwards cautiously along the riverbank, carefully listening to the movements of the vagabonds ahead of them. Entering a clearing, all the tension in the prince's chest drained as he found his foes to be two children battling one another with wooden broomsticks. The boy was clearly more skilled than his female counterpart as he quickly dodged her thrust and aimed his next strike at her knuckles. The broom hit true, cracking against her skin. The girl yelped and lost her weapon, leaving herself open to a finishing attack.

Before their fight could escalate further, a booming voice came from behind them.

"Just what do you two think you're doing here?" it echoed.

The two children flinched, knowing their fun was over. As they turned to the looming figure of Nat Baratheon, Sansa caught a glimpse of the girl's face and went aghast. It was her younger sister, Arya Stark.

"Arya!" she cried incredulously.

The prince's eyes flashed with recognition. Ah, he'd also better sheathe his knife. Swiftly putting the knife away at his belt, he crouched down and stared the children directly in the eyes to lecture them.

"Now, what do the two of you think you're doing out here? You interrupted quite a lovely walk," he questioned.

"None of your business! Just go away! Leave us alone!" Arya exploded on him.

While Nat found her outburst amusing, it was clear that his partner did not. "Arya! How dare you talk to my prince that way? When I tell Septa Mordane you'll be in so much trouble! And just think what father will say!" she chided.

The prince sighed. Sansa was still a child he understood, but in his conversations with her he hadn't truly grasped exactly what that would mean. Apparently, it meant childish outbursts such as this.

"Sansa, please it's no worry," he reassured her, "I like her gumption!"

Sansa furrowed her brow. Fine? How could he treat that outburst like it was a summer breeze? No one would be permitted to talk to the king that way, much less the prince! Perhaps Nat wasn't quite up to what she thought he was.

"Pardon me, my prince, but this is _not_ fine! A lady shouldn't be mingling with the smallfolk much less _dueling_ with them! This is disgraceful!" Sansa shouted.

Nat rolled his eyes before turning to the boy, "I suppose she's partially right, you should never hit a lady, even in a duel…what's your name, lad?"

"M-Mycah, my Lord."

"He's the butcher's boy," Sansa informed him.

"He's my friend," Arya said indignantly.

"Well, I trust you'll take it easier on Lady Arya in the future, eh Mycah? You're quite quick, you know," Nat winked.

Sansa was aghast. He was letting this go? Had he no sense of pride?

"Would you look at that! A butcher's boy that wants to be a knight!" exclaimed a voice from the woods.

The group turned to the sound to find Prince Joffrey Baratheon leaning lazily against a tree at the edge of the woods. The prince straightened up and strut over to them, a hand resting on the pommel of his blade.

"Care to show us how good you are? Come, take on my brother, or better yet take on me!" he instigated.

Nat could see where this was going from leagues away and he wasn't going to stand for it. Squinting at his brother, Nat could see a shade of pink dusting his pale cheeks. He had clearly had a bit of wine which was making him even more overconfident and arrogant than per usual. That would have to be corrected.

"You know, Joff, we might be able to give them a better show if you and I face off, what do you say?" Nat interjected.

Joffrey had gone stark white and began to sputter up and excuse. Nat didn't give him the time, quickly pulling his dagger from his belt and twirling it about his fingers. Sansa was horrified. Mycah and Arya were amazed by the prince's skill.

"Oh, please my prince there's no need to fight!" Sansa urged.

The prince shot her a look she had yet to see from him. A look of utter frustration and annoyance. His eyes had lost all their usual humor and had turned a deadly shade of green. Sansa took a step back in fear.

"No, Joffrey wants a match, he'll get one," Nat growled.

Joffrey flickered between fear and rage several times over the next terse minute, ultimately deciding the rage outweighed the fear as he unsheathed his blade, Lion's Tooth, and poked it into the butcher boy's cheek.

"He committed a high crime, hitting a lady, brother," Joffrey said. "He's no knight and I think he should know that; don't you agree?" Joffrey urged his blade forward slightly, piercing Mycah's cheek until blood began to drip.

"You stop it!" Arya screamed, scrambling for her broomstick.

"Don't worry, I won't hurt him…much," Joffrey said fiendishly.

Before he could do anymore damage, Nat had his fist clenched around Joffrey's shirt collar. The prince yanked his brother backwards, sending him stumbling to the floor. Nat frowned and stabbed his dagger into the dirt at Joffrey's side. Nat had thought he had stopped the violence there but evidently Arya Stark had more gumption than he had previously assessed. While Joffrey was struggling to recover from his tumble, Arya had seized her broomstick and began to slam it into Joffrey's side, hard.

Joffrey yelped, raising his hands in protection as the broomstick broke against his skin. As Arya backed away, tossing her broomstick to the side, Joffrey rose with a fury. "Filthy little bitch!" he screeched.

From afar, Sansa began to cry, "Stop it! Stop it both of you, you're spoiling it! You're spoiling everything!"

As Joffrey charged the young Stark, Mycah staggered away into the woods as quickly as he could, clutching his face. "I'll gut you, you little cunt!" the second eldest prince screeched, raising his blade to Arya.

Before he could go any further the looming figure of Nat Baratheon stepped in front of him. Raising his arms, Nat almost growled at his brother, "Take one more step and you'll regret it."

Joffrey was never very good at listening. He charged Nat, thrusting with Lion's Tooth as swiftly as possible. Nat easily side-stepped his brother and grabbed his wrist, twisting hard. Joffrey squealed as Lion's Tooth clattered to the ground. Nat pulled his brother's arm behind his back and pushed him down into the dirt at Arya's feet. The prince patted his thighs and bent down to pick up his dagger from the dirt. This would prove to be a mistake as Joffrey had leapt to his feet quickly and once again held his blade in his hands.

"You're dead!" he said, making to swing at Arya.

Quicker than Nat could hope to react, a direwolf leapt over his back and secured Joffrey's forearm in its maw. As Nat stood to attention, Joffrey rolled about, screaming and kicking to try and free himself from the direwolf.

"Nymeria!" Arya called.

At her master's call, Nymeria released Joffrey's arm and trot over to Arya's side. Joffrey whimpered in the dirt, holding his shredded arm. Nat stood over him, scowling with disapproval.

"P-please brother," he wept.

Nat scoffed. Joffrey was a nuisance. Often, he was Nat's least favorite person in their family, even more so than their father. But still, he was family. If there was one thing Nat had picked up from his grandfather, it was that one did not betray family. One did everything for the sake of family. Extending a hand to his brother, Nat pulled Joffrey to his feet.

"You," he boomed at Arya, who had picked up Lion's Tooth. "Give that here."

Arya's brow twitched at the command and with all her might, she launched the blade into the river. Turning on her heel, Arya sprinted into the woods, Nymeria at her feet. Where they were heading Nat couldn't care less. The frustrated prince was practically holding Joffrey up as the younger prince wept.

"Fetch help, now," he commanded, turning to Sansa.

The still sobbing girl nodded through her tears and ran towards the direction of the camp, leaving the princes alone. Nat guided Joffrey to the ground and leaned back on his haunches.

"I'm going to have a talk with mother about your drinking," he chastised. "You do stupid things when you're drunk and attacking Lord Stark's daughter was beyond stupid, Joffrey."

Joffrey's lip quivered as shouts began to come from the camp.

"I-I hate you! You ingrate! Y-you'll be hearing from mother!" he snapped back.

Nat shook his head and looked off towards camp, waiting for assistance to arrive. He was sure he would be hearing from their mother, but he'd be damned if she ignored Joffrey's behavior. Not this time.

~0~0~0~

**That's chapter four. What did you think? Liking a bit more of Nat's personality thus far? How's the punishment going to be doled out next chapter? Let me know your thoughts!**

**Chapters will likely come out slower starting now as the semesters started up and I'm going to have less time, but I'll try to get them out as quickly as I can. I've got an outline for the plot of the story that I'm going to do my best to keep to, so you're in for probably around a hundred-chapter story!**

**Hope you're ready for that! I am! **

**See you in the next chapter and I hope you have a good one.**

**-Munch**


	5. King's Landing

**Chapter Five- King's Landing**

The inn was packed with soldiers, Stark, Lannister, and Baratheon alike as the crowd waited for the arrival of Lord Eddard Stark. The Warden of the North had led a search party that afternoon to search for his youngest daughter, Arya, after she and her direwolf had disappeared into the wilderness. Said girl was now standing only a few feet from Crown Prince Nat Baratheon, in the center of the room.

The girl was trembling with the eyes of every soldier on the room locked onto her. Nat's jaw clenched and unclenched at the sight; he knew what was coming. He had known since his conversation with his mother just hours before.

~0~0~0~

_ "You need to get a handle on Joffrey," Nat chided, pacing before his mother in her chambers._

_ "And you need to get a handle on who the enemy is, my son," she replied coolly._

_ Nat stopped midstride and turned, two pairs of emerald eyes locking onto one another. "I beg your pardon?" he asked._

_ Cersei readjusted herself in her seat, resting her cheek in her palm as she stared up at her first born. "The enemy, my dear; you've spent so much time studying war with Ser Barristan I would have thought you'd be familiar with the concept."_

_ Nat grunted impatiently, "Make your point, mother."_

_ "Joffrey is your brother, regardless of his actions he is your blood, anyone who cannot say the same is an enemy," she cooed._

_ Nat's eyes narrowed at the queen. "He tried to kill Arya Stark, the daughter of the second most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms, and you're excusing this?" _

_ Cersei rolled her eyes, "Oh please, your grandfather is more powerful than the honorable Lord Stark, we owe him nothing."_

_ Nat was astounded. How could someone with decades of political prowess not understand the implications of Joffrey's behavior? Was his mother really that deluded?_

_ "Lord Stark's daughter is my betrothed; the North is the most famously independent kingdom in the realm- how can you not see the recklessness of Joffrey's actions?" he growled._

_ Cersei stood and slowly walked to her son, placing a hand on his back, "Of course it was reckless, and yet we will do nothing, do you know why?" she asked._

_ Nat raised a brow._

_ "Because it's our word against theirs, and our word always wins."_

~0~0~0~

The memory made Nat's blood boil. He didn't trust the Starks as far as he could throw them, not yet, anyway, but he would be damned if he let an innocent child be punished for a fight his brother instigated. Nat may have been able to do whatever he wanted, but he wasn't cruel.

A commotion came from the back of the room as Lord Stark pushed his way through the crowd. The trembling Arya raced to her father's arms repeating, "I'm sorry," over and over as he embraced her.

Eddard pulled away and looked the girl in the eye. "It's alright- are you hurt?"

Arya quickly shook her head as the Lord of Winterfell stood to face the royal family.

"What is the meaning of this? Why was my daughter not brought to me at once?" he fumed. Nat took stock as he watched the man speak. Most of the men in the room were theirs; Lord Stark stood in rather hostile territory.

"How dare you speak to your king in that manner?" his mother asked from the opposite side of Robert's chair.

The king snapped at her, "Quiet woman! Sorry, Ned, never meant to frighten the girl, but we need to get this business done quickly."

At the suggestion, Lord Stark was taken aback. "What business is that?" he grumbled.

Cersei put her arms atop Joffrey's shoulders. "Your girl and that butcher's boy attacked my son, that animal of hers nearly ripped Joffrey's arm off!" she accused.

Arya Stark stepped forward; she was a brave one indeed. "That's not true! She just…she bit him a little! He was hurting Mycah!"

It seemed his mother would not be outdone by a nine-year-old girl as she continued, "Joff told us what happened, you and the butcher's boy beat him with clubs and set your wolf on him."

"That's not what happened!" Arya insisted.

"Yes it is!" squealed Joffrey. "They all attacked me and she threw my sword in the river!"

"Liar!" Arya screeched.

"ENOUGH!" the king bellowed as he rose, silencing all in the room. Robert glanced over his shoulder at Nat before glowering between the two children before him. "_He_ tells me one thing, _she_ tells me another, seven hells what am I supposed to make of this!?"

Robert turned and grabbed Nat's sleeve, pulling him towards the center of the room.

"Ned! Where's your other daughter?"

"In bed, asleep," Lord Stark replied.

"No she's not, Sansa, here darling," his mother beckoned.

From the crowd Sansa emerged, joining Nat in the center of the room before the king.

"Well then, let's see if their stories match; you first boy," Robert ordered.

Nat took a deep breath; it was time to put on his politician mask. "Lady Sansa and I were on quite a lovely stroll along the banks of the Trident when we heard some commotion," he began. "Upon our further inspection we found Lady Arya and the butcher's boy playing with broomsticks- I believe they were pretending to be knights," he continued to the laughter of the soldiers in the room.

Nat turned to his brother and stared him in the eyes, "It was a simple children's game until the prince arrived, I'm afraid Joffrey did indeed hurt the butcher's boy a tad, which prompted a skirmish; I had the situation under control but Lady Arya's direwolf arrived at the defense of her mistress and fancied a royal feast, hence the wounds on my brother's arm."

Nat paused, taking in the laughter surrounding him. Good. He was defusing the tension somewhat.

"Though my brother was correct, Lady Arya did give him a bit of a thrashing with her broomstick; had her direwolf not intervened in I believe I would have been able to settle the situation then and there, but here we stand," he concluded.

Robert's icy eyes closed as he pondered the prince's story, fingers stroking his beard. Before long, he opened his eyes and turned to Sansa, speaking more softly now, "Now you, child…tell me what happened. Tell it all and tell it true; remember, it's a great crime to lie to a king," he commanded.

Nat glanced down at Sansa. The girl's skin was a ghostly white, the poor thing looked terrified. He pitied her, this entire incident shouldn't have happened in the first place, she shouldn't have had to testify before all these people like this.

"I-I don't remember," she stammered. "Everything happened so fast, I-"

"Liar!" Arya shrieked before jumping on Sansa's back, pulling at her hair, "Liar! Liar! Liar!"

"Stop that!" cried Eddard.

As the captain of the Stark household guard, Jory Cassel, pulled the girls apart Nat sighed in frustration. He wasn't exactly expecting a savvy political defusal from the girl, he could hardly do much without inciting anger from his mother, but this complete lack of responsibility from her was disappointing. Even his little sister could do better.

His mother looked down on the Stark girls, "She's as wild as that animal of hers, I want her punished," she declared.

Robert and Nat rolled their eyes simultaneously. "What would you have me do, whip her through the streets?" Robert said to his queen. "Damn it, children fight. It's over."

Nat could see his mother's jaw tighten. "Joffrey will bear these scars the rest of his life."

Nat almost scoffed. Joffrey would do good to bear any scars at all seeing as the boy would never enter any real combat. At least this way the prince could give the impression that he had been in a real duel before. His father seemed to agree.

"You let that little girl disarm you?" he shook his head incredulously, much to Joffrey's embarrassment., before turning to Lord Stark. "See to it that your daughter is disciplined, and I'll do the same with my son."

"Gladly, Your Grace," Lord Stark nodded.

Nat exhaled. He hadn't realized that he had been holding his breath. With all of the tension the prince had forgotten to take a breath. Thankfully, it seemed his testimony had deterred the Stark girl from receiving worse punishment. Or, it had seemed that way before his mother spoke once more.

"And what of the direwolf?" she called. "What of the beast that savaged your son?"

_Seven Hells mother, let this go_ Nat thought, furrowing his brow.

Robert straightened his back and paused, "I'd forgot the damned wolf."

A Lannister soldier leaned forwards from his position among the troops, "We found no trace of the direwolf, Your Grace."

Robert shook his head and made to leave, "So be it."

Nat shut his eyes and exhaled through his nose. Thank the Gods.

"We have another wolf," his mother persisted, emerald eyes ablaze with determination.

It was Nat's turn to clench his jaw. _You'd condemn an innocent creature to death? _Nat glanced over his shoulder at Sansa, whose mouth was agape with shock. The poor thing. Looking back to his father, the prince could see the suggestion working its way through the king's head.

"As you will," Robert decided.

Nat frowned. As expected, his father would just do as his mother wished.

"You can't mean it," Eddard protested.

"A direwolf is no pet," Robert dismissed. "Get the girl a dog, Ned, she'll be happier for it."

Nat started as Sansa cried out from behind him. "He doesn't mean Lady, does he? No, no, Lady didn't bite anyone! She's good!" she wailed.

Arya corroborated her sister's claim. "Lady wasn't there! You leave her alone!"

Sansa's cheeks were wet with tears as she clasped Nat's forearm, "Please my prince, please!" Nat made no motion at the girl's wailing and so she turned to her father. "Please, stop them," she pleaded. "Please don't let them do it, please, please, it wasn't Lady!" she wept.

Eddard wrapped Sansa in his arms as she wept, watching his friend make for the door. The Warden of the North gently guided Sansa from his arms and stood firm in the center of the room, "Is this your command…Your Grace?" he called, voice cutting through the air.

Nat watched as his father stopped midstride and turned to Lord Stark with dead eyes before leaving the room, his guard trailing quickly behind. The hall was quiet except for the wailing of Sansa Stark.

"Where is the beast?" Cersei asked.

"Chained up outside, Your Grace," a Lannister soldier responded.

The queen turned to Illyn Payne, "Ser Illyn, do me the honor," she commanded.

Before the executioner could move Lord Stark spoke up, "No…Jory, take the girls to their rooms…if this must be done, let me do it."

Cersei raised a brow, "Is this a trick?"

"The wolf is of the North," Eddard rumbled. "She deserves better than your southern butchers."

As the Stark girls were lead away, still screaming, the matter was settled. Nat glowered at his mother, a look she returned with a smug grin before leading Joffrey out of the room. The prince felt his face heat up. This was more than a case of ignorance, it was unjust, and they all knew it. Nat was not a perfect man, but he was a fair one, and he would not stand for injustice.

The crown prince clasped the shoulder of the Lord of Winterfell as the man made to leave the room. "I apologize Lord Stark, had I known my mother would demand something like this…I'm afraid sweet words fall on deaf ears with the king," he explained.

Eddard's grey eyes bore into the prince. Nat had grown used to stern expressions having been fostered under his grandfather, Lord Tywin Lannister, but the Quiet Wolf's reputation held well. The man was intimidating. It felt like he was seeing every scheme, plot, and dirty deed that the prince had ever committed.

"I do wonder if that's true," he responded, leaving the crown prince alone in the room.

~0~0~0~

Eddard made his way to break his daughter's heart, the bile of the conflict at the inn still fresh in his throat. The Lord of Winterfell was furious. How could Robert, his friend, allow an injustice like this to pass? Especially to such a gentle creature as Lady. Sansa had pampered the sweet animal since she had chosen her, and as such, the direwolf had become the most tranquil of her litter. Lady wouldn't nick the prince's flesh, much less savage it. And now she was to be put to death at the king's command.

As Eddard sat in his anger, he noticed the towering figure of Sandor Clegane, the Hound, riding past him. A large mound was slung over the horse's rear. Upon further inspection, it was no mound, but the butcher's boy, Mycah. The boy was hardly recognizable with his flesh cut the way it was. He had nearly been chopped in two.

"The butcher's boy!" Eddard called. "You ran him down?"

The Hound's chuckles echoed in his hound-head helm. "He ran…not very fast."

Eddard was disgusted, but he hadn't the time to feel sorry for the butcher's family. He continued on the way, but rather than finding the chained up direwolf he had expected to see, he found a bloodied wolf with a severed head laying in the dirt.

"What…" he trailed off, crouching down to inspect the carcass.

The blood on the wolf's fur was dry, it had been dead awhile. Glancing across the animal's body, Eddard noted that this wolf was much smaller than Lady. Furthermore, it was male.

"The beast has been taken care of, Lord Stark," a quiet voice called from a few feet away.

Eddard rose. "Who are you?"

The man couldn't be seen in the shadows, but from his build he looked to be armored. His face was masked by a low, dark hood. A soldier, most likely. "No one of importance, my Lord, the crown prince sends his warm regards."

He was taken aback, "Nat ordered this?"

The soldier nodded. "The crown prince is known for being quite crafty, he saw the king's order coming before the gathering had even begun and instructed us to lead the beast somewhere safe."

"But the wolf-" Eddard began.

"Was killed by mistake hours ago while we were searching for your daughter's direwolf," the soldier finished.

Eddard looked down at the creature. That explained the fresh wolf carcass at his feet. But once Robert found out that Nat had circumvented his authority there would be hell to pay.

"Robert will not be pleased," he declared.

The soldier waved a hand. "The king won't spare the creature a second thought, and neither will the queen or her Illborn son; you need not worry, Lord Stark, this isn't the first time the prince has bypassed King Robert's wishes, he's grown quite good at it."

Eddard furrowed his brow. He was still unsure about Nat Baratheon. On the surface he seemed so much like Robert it was almost striking, but underneath…he couldn't place his motivation. Much like his grandfather, Nat was cunning, and cunning was not something that Eddard was fond of.

"Where is the direwolf then?" he asked.

The soldier turned to leave, face still hidden under his hood, "Where she should be, my Lord, with your daughter."

~0~0~0~

Nat sat down at the inn's bar with an exasperated sigh. That had certainly not gone as planned. He was fortunate to be blessed with a Lannister intellect and foresaw his mother's wrath reaching its way past the Stark girls and to their direwolves. The prince had ordered both of the creatures be taken into protective custody should things go awry in his testimony, unfortunately, only Lady could be located. But one of the creatures safe was better than both of them dead.

The prince flagged down the bartender and dropped a gold dragon on the counter, signaling for several flasks of ale to be brought before him. Ale well earned, as far as the prince was concerned. With the first of many flasks in front of him, Nat was ready for a night of relaxation before a hooded figure sat beside him.

"Lord Stark has been informed, my prince," the figure whispered.

Nat took a swig of ale and squinted. He shouldn't have expected much from an inn along the King's Road, but the prince was still quite unsatisfied with the taste. "And what of Jory Cassel?" he asked.

"Instructed to keep the direwolf secure and hidden away for the remainder of your journey south," the figure responded.

The prince took another swig, "Good," he declared. "You'll be payed extra for your diligence, now be on your way."

"I've received word from one of your contacts in King's Landing, my prince, regarding the death of Jon Arryn."

Nat nearly choked on his ale.

"And I'm being informed of this on the King's Road, why?" he growled.

"The woman insisted it was urgent, my prince," the figure explained.

Nat pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed before finishing his first flask. Turning to the man, the prince's emerald eyes were deadly serious.

"Which contact sent word?" he demanded.

"A whore, Laina Waters."

Nat's eyes narrowed. Laina. It must be serious then. Laina was one of the few people in the world that Nat could expressly say he trusted. The girl had been the first whore the prince had ever known, and subsequently, his most frequent bedside company. Though the prince valued her as one of his contacts in the Street of Silk, he valued her company and opinion much more. Laina, though a bastard and a whore, was sharp and witty. He would go so far as to say she was more intelligent than most Highborn ladies. As such, she was his favorite whore, and one he was sure he could trust.

"Get on with it then, what's she found?"

He leaned in close to whisper in the prince's ear, "Lord Jon Arryn was seen by several credible sources visiting a brothel on the Street of Silk several times, just prior to his death; the rest, she says, will have to come upon your return to the capital."

Nat scratched his chin as he took in the news. Jon Arryn was an honorable and quiet man. Unlike his father and himself, the Lord Hand wouldn't be inclined to partake in whoring. So why the visits to the brothels? Nat was certain Lord Arryn had at least some suspicion as to his own business in the Street of Silk, could that be it? An investigation? No, unlikely. Perhaps something to do with his father? Could the Lord Hand have discovered something even more scandalous than the king's whoring? The king couldn't be responsible for Jon Arryn's death, could he? No, that was even more unlikely. His father loved Jon Arryn more than anyone else in the world. So what was it?

The prince groaned and rubbed his temples. There were just too many theories based on that snippet of information. He'd have to wait until King's Landing to make any real progress. But with their arrival still over a week away, the intel would be the _only _thing on the prince's mind.

He sighed and clasped the figure on his hooded shoulder, "That'll do, Hood, thank you."

With a curt nod, Hood stood from his stool and faded into the shadows of the night. The prince took a deep swig of the foul ale before him and exhaled. He wanted to be at home now more than ever.

~0~0~0~

**One week later**

A wide smile spread across the face of the heir to the Seven Kingdoms, Prince Nat Baratheon, as the Gate of the Gods came into view ahead of him. After nearly a month-long journey on the King's Road, finally, they had returned to the capital. He was home. King's Landing was a city rife with struggle, poverty, and waste, but even so, it was Nat's favorite place in the world.

He'd been traveling since boyhood and had seen much of Westeros' wonders, from Old Town to White Harbor, and yet the prince was rarely as in his element as he was in the capital. The capital was magnificent, indeed, with half a million people and a rich history, but that wasn't quite what captured the prince's heart. It was more than his sense of familiarity with the capital, it was the air of tension. He couldn't quite explain it, but there was something about the constant feeling of suspense in the air that got his heart pumping.

King's Landing was within him, and now, finally, he was once again within King's Landing.

_And now, back to business_ the prince thought as their party crossed through one of the capitals seven gates.

Laina's message had been the first and last thing on his mind since he had heard it last week, and now that the royal party had returned to the capital, he could get back to his investigation. Of course, now he would need to make time for the courting of Sansa Stark, but he was determined to do the bare minimum in that regard.

As he made his way into the city atop Ser Trot, he was immediately surrounded by Smallfolk. The citizens held shiny fruits up to the prince as he and the king lead the royal party through the gates. Men and women whooped and hollered, children waved, trying to catch their attention. Though his father kept his gaze forward, ignoring the offerings, Nat flashed his Lion's Grin and took his time riding through the crowd.

The Smallfolk were quite fond of the royal family, but they adored Nat, and for good reason. Much to his mother's chagrin, Nat was known to take frequent trips into Fleabottom and mingle amongst the citizenry. Not only did he meet some of his most trusted contacts in Fleabottom, but some of the more entertaining men and women in the Seven Kingdoms. Nat was a model prince and mixed well with the proper nature of political life, but he would be lying if he claimed he didn't tire of it at times. Some days, all he wanted to do was to relax with some ale in a pub and watch the Smallfolk dance. Lord Arryn had recognized this need in his youth and had permitted the prince a trip or two so long as he was accompanied by an armed guard, but in recent years, the prince had made most of his trips into the poorest part of the city alone.

Nat extended an arm and let the people of King's Landing touch their hands to his as he rode by. He decided he would set some time aside in the coming weeks to mingle with the Smallfolk, but first he would need to send for Laina to meet him in his chambers, they had much to discuss.

As the party passed through the gates to the Red Keep, Nat caught the eye of a rather burly member of the City Watch. The man's dark eyes flicked upwards towards one of the Maegor's Holdfast, the fortress that housed the prince's apartment. He had information for the prince that he was eager to share. He was Ammett Garner, the prince's contact in the City Watch and a son of House Garner, a vassal to his grandfather. If he had information for the prince, it likely had to do with something regarding the security of one of his other contacts.

_Excellent_, the prince thought to himself as he dismounted Ser Trot, _As if I didn't have enough troubling me already_.

"My prince!" a city page exclaimed as he scurried towards them.

Nat almost groaned. _What now?_

"Welcome home, my prince. Grand Maester Pycelle has called a meeting of the Small Council. The honor of your presence as well as that of the Lord Hand is requested," he exhaled.

The prince was dumbfounded. A Small Council meeting? Already? Pycelle wasn't a man that rushed to do anything, what could possibly be driving him to call forth a Small Council meeting on the hour of their arrival to the capital?

"Is this an urgent meeting?"

The page nodded, "The Grand Maester insisted it was quite urgent, my prince."

Nat sighed. Laina and Ammett were going to have to wait, it appeared. The prince turned to Lord Stark who was similarly dismounting his own steed.

"Well then, Lord Stark, it seems there is a meeting to attend, you'll want to change."

~0~0~0~

Lord Eddard Stark strode through the Great Hall, now stripped of his traveling garments and bearing the plain robes and leather vest he was accustomed to wearing at home. Home. Winterfell was thousands of miles from the massive hall he now stood in. He wondered how his family was fairing, he hoped well.

As the Hand of the King made his way through the room, he could see the figure of Jaime Lannister standing before the Iron Throne. Said throne was monstrous. Ten or more feet of molded steel. Eddard was sure the climb to the top would tire out his old bones. Supposedly the throne had been forged by dragonfire, made of the thousand swords of Aegon the Conqueror's enemies. In his youth, that had seemed an admirable feat, but standing before the throne as he was now, Eddard only thought it nauseating.

"Thank the gods you're here, Lord Stark," Jaime began as he approached. "It's about time we had some stern northern leadership."

Eddard was not amused by the man's quip. He nodded to the throne towering over them. "Glad to see you're protecting the throne," he observed.

Jaime rested a hand atop the hilt of his sword and looked up at the Iron Throne. "Sturdy old thing. How many king's asses have polished it, I wonder?" he turned back to Eddard. "What's the line? The King shits and the Hand wipes?"

"Very handsome armor," the Hand distracted. "Not a scratch on it."

Jaime smiled arrogantly, flashing his teeth. "I know! People have been swinging at me for years, but they always seem to miss."

"You've chosen your opponents wisely then," Eddard commented.

Jaime nodded. "I have a knack for it…it must be strange for you, coming in this room. I was standing right here when it happened, he was very brave, your brother, your father too, they didn't deserve to die like that."

Shadows covered the Warden of the North's face at his comment. Eddard was well aware of how unjust the execution of his father and elder brother had been. The Mad King had burned his father alive while his brother strangled himself to death trying to save him. They were never even given a trial.

"But you just stood there and watched," he said in a low voice.

"Five hundred men stood there and watched," Jaime corrected. "All the great knights in the Seven Kingdoms- you think anyone said a word? Lifted a finger? No, Lord Stark," Jaime frowned. "Five hundred men and this room was silent as a crypt. Except for the screams, of course, and the Mad King laughing. And later... When I watched the Mad King die, I remembered him laughing as your father burned... It felt like justice."

Eddard narrowed his eyes, "Is that what you tell yourself at night? That you're a servant of justice? That you were avenging my father when you shoved your sword into Aerys Targaryen's back?"

Jaime put on a crocodile smile, "Tell me, if I had stabbed the Mad King in the belly instead of the back, would you admire me more?"

Eddard walked past the man and continued on his way to the Small Council Chambers, thoroughly done with their conversation. "You served well when serving was safe," he concluded.

~0~0~0~

Lord Eddard Stark strode into the room just when Nat thought he couldn't wait any longer. Seated at the head of the table, leaning back in his chair with his heels atop the table, the prince was looking rather unprincely, and very impatient.

"Ah! Finally, Lord Stark, we can begin then!" he cried with joy.

Lord Stark raised a brow.

"Where is Robert?" he asked.

Nat readjusted his position and sat upright, hands clasped together and elbows on the table before him. "The King doesn't have much time for these meetings anymore, I'm afraid, I've come to take his place."

The Hand looked around the room and caught the eye of the Spider, Varys, Master of Whispers. Nat wasn't very fond of Varys. He didn't like a man whose secrets he couldn't sort out, and Varys was a man with many well-hidden secrets.

"I assure you, Lord Stark, this is standard procedure; Lord Arryn thought it would be a good way for the prince to gain governing experience, you will still have chief authority over decision-making," the Spider hummed.

This seemed to settle Lord Stark's worries somewhat as he turned to greet the other Lords present at the meeting, "Renly! You're looking well," he exclaimed, embracing the man in a hug.

Nat's uncle, Lord Renly Baratheon of Storm's End and the Master of Laws returned his hug. Nat smiled at the sight. His uncle was a good man, he thought. Always polite and kind, and not so ambitious that he would step out of line, which is more than he could say about the man standing behind him.

"You look tired from the road," Renly smiled. "I told them this meeting could wait another day, but-"

"But we have a kingdom to look after," finished a shrewd man with graying hair. Lord Petry Baelish, the Master of Coin. Why he had ever been appointed to such a position was beyond Nat. The man had made dozens of terrible investments that he had assured Jon Arryn would be profitable. He was just as much responsible for the Crown's position as his father, if not more.

"I've been hoping to meet you for a long time, Lord Stark, no doubt Lady Catelyn has mentioned me."

Lord Stark looked rather uncomfortable, "She has, Lord Baelish; I understand you knew my brother Brandon as well."

Petyr's features contorted into a weasel-like smirk. "All too well, I still carry a token of his esteem from navel to collarbone," he said, tracing his scars over his clothing.

Nat rolled his eyes. He had heard the stories of Littlefinger's attempt to win the hand of then Catelyn Stark from her betrothed, Brandon Stark. From what Jon Arryn had told him, the Master of Coin hardly lasted two minutes before Brandon Stark had him at death's door. If not for the grace of Catelyn, Littlefinger wouldn't be standing before them today.

_And what a shame that would be,_ Nat thought.

Lord Stark smiled grimly, "Perhaps you chose the wrong man to duel with."

Littlefinger returned his smile with a smug grin, shaking his head, "It wasn't the man I chose, my lord. It was Catelyn Tully. A woman worth fighting for, I'm sure you'll agree," he twittered.

"Let's leave the past in the past, eh, Lord Baelish?" Nat interrupted.

Littlefinger turned to the prince and nodded his head, bowing slightly before returning to his seat. Lord Stark glanced at the prince, grey eyes locking onto emerald ones.

"I humbly beg your pardon, my Lord Stark," wheezed an elderly man from his seat.

"Grand Maester," greeted Eddard.

Nat sighed. Pycelle was more of an annoyance than a maester, much less the Grand Maester. The old man looked much worse than he actually was, with a balding head and a thin, wispy white beard you would think he was a ghost at first glance. If not for the massive chain of locks adorned with gemstones decorating his shoulders, he'd have looked like an old beggar. As much as Nat hated men with secrets, he hated men terrible at keeping them far more, and Pycelle was truly awful at hiding his true condition.

"How many years has it been? You were a young man," Pycelle pondered.

"And you served a different king," Eddard replied coolly.

"Ah, how forgetful of me," sputtered Pycelle. The Grand Maester reached into the folds of his robs and pulled out a golden badge, shaped to look like a hand. The badge of the Hand of the King. "This belongs to you now," he said, passing the token to Eddard.

Nat's heart ached at the sight. Only months ago that badge was pinned to the chest of one of the truest men he had ever known, and now it was pinned to a stranger. A strange whose daughter he was being forced to marry. Nat exhaled through his nose. No, it was not the time for that. It was time for business.

"Well then, now that we've all greeted one another, let's begin, hm?" he grinned brightly, motioning for Eddard to take the seat next to him.

"My brother instructs us to stage a tournament in honor of Lord Stark's appointment as Hand of the King," Renly began.

Petry thumbed his chin, "Mm, how much?"

"Forty thousand gold dragons to the winner of the joust, twenty thousand to the runner-up, and another twenty thousand to the winning archer," Eddard finished, reading from a scroll.

Petyr sighed, rubbing his neck in frustration. The prince scoffed, his father couldn't be serious.

"I'll have to borrow it, the Lannisters will accommodate I expect, we already owe Lord Tywin three million gold dragons, what's eighty thousand more?" Petry asked.

Nat thought Eddard's eyes were going to burst from his skull, "Are you telling me that the Crown is three million in debt?" he asked, exasperated.

Nat chuckled bitterly, "No, Lord Stark, the Crown is _six_ million in debt," he corrected.

Eddard leaned back in his chair, utterly astounded. "I don't understand, how could you all let this happen?"

Littlefinger grinned slyly, "The Master of Coin finds the money. The King and the Hand spend it."

Eddard's brow furrowed, "I will not believe that Jon Arryn would allow Robert to bankrupt the realm-"

"Oh no, it wasn't Jon Arryn's fault in the slightest," Nat interjected. All eyes in the room turned to him, the Master of Coin's especially narrow. "The Hand of the King was a very trusting man, he can't be blamed for being mislead by those he trusted," the prince continued, staring directly at Littlefinger with every word.

"Lord Arryn gave wise and prudent advice," Pycelle wheezed in a feeble attempt to distract from the prince's accusation. "Unfortunately, his Grace didn't always listen."

"Counting coppers, he calls it," Renly added.

Eddard closed his eyes for a moment, before leaning his elbows against the table, "Yes, well perhaps he'll listen to me, I'll speak with Robert tomorrow and tell him that this tournament is an extravagance we cannot afford."

Nat couldn't contain a laugh, "Forgive me, Lord Stark, but there's sooner a chance a dragon burns down the Wall than my father listening to reason."

"Yes, in the meantime we'd best make plans," Petry agreed.

"There will be no plans until I speak with Robert!" Eddard shouted. "Forgive me, my lords, I've had a long ride," he apologized.

"We both have," Nat added. "Perhaps we can hold the remainder of this discussion for after Lord Stark speaks with my father, hm? This way we can allow enjoy some evening's rest."

Varys nodded his concurrence, "You are the King's Hand, Lord Stark, we serve at your pleasure."

"Excellent!" Nat cried, rising from his seat swiftly. The prince bowed his head to the lords in the room, "I bid you a good day, my lords," he chattered before rushing from the Small Council Chambers.

Eddard watched the trail of the prince as he rushed from the room. "What's got him so energized?" he wondered aloud.

Petry smiled wickedly, "Oh, the boy is just excited to return to the embrace of his whores, I'm sure."

Aside from Eddard, only Renly and Pycelle were shocked.

"His what?"

~0~0~0~

Nat dodged manservants and maids as he hurried quickly to his apartment in Maegor's Holdfast. Since seeing Ammett at the Keep's gates, he'd been itching to be given an update regarding his contacts. Ammett knew that the prince's chambers were a safe place for him to station himself and that the prince would want his information as soon as possible if there were truly anything to share.

_And if I'm correct, Ammett should be waiting for me around this corner_ he thought.

And there he was. A burly, tanned man dressed in the shining armor of the City Watch. Ammett was a relatively new contact of Nat's and had only been in the prince's personal service since joining the watch a year prior. Nat had been interested in acquiring a contact within the guard for some time, and had personally interviewed the newly admitted class of City Watch soldiers to test their loyalties and motivations. Among dozens of men, only Ammett declared that his chief loyalty be to the people of King's Landing above the royal family, and that was why Nat had chosen him, because above all, Nat knew Ammett would serve the realm.

Ammett nodded inconspicuously to the prince as he approached, "My prince," he said in a low, smooth voice.

"Hello, my good man," Nat began loudly before switching to a lower tone. "Join me in my chambers, won't you?"

The corner of Ammett's mouth turned upwards, "Well actually, my prince, I'm not sure it would be appropriate for me to do so."

Nat raised a brow, "What do you-"

Before the prince could finish, the door to his apartment opened and an arm reached from within, grabbing the collar of his black robes and dragging him inside.

Ammett chuckled and readjusted his stance as several castle maids rounded the corner.

"I should have given you better warning, my Prince," he muttered under his breath with a smile.

~0~0~0~

Her lips were on his before he could even process what had just happened. One moment he was greeting Ammett at the door and the next he was pinned up against the wall of his apartment by a much smaller figure with soft lips. Nat struggled to free himself from her fierce kisses, but managed to find the sweet-spot under her right arm and give it a light poke.

The woman squeaked and Nat capitalized on her momentary weakness to switch places with the girl. Now he was the that had her pinned up against the wall. The woman had long, ash-brown hair extending to her waist, with several locks braided in the southern style. She wore loose pink robes that did little to hide either her curves nor her prominent bust. Her pale-green eyes shone with warmth as she looked up at him.

Nat smiled genuinely for the first time in months.

"Hello, Laina."

Laina wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him deeply. "Welcome home, my Nat, we have much to discuss."

~0~0~0~

**And that's the chapter!**

**Forgive me for the long wait, I know it's been a few months, but second semester has left me with very little time to write. And with all the chaos going on in the world today, my last thought has been on writing this story for you all. But never fear! Nat and the Seven Kingdoms may have been my last thought but I was still thinking of them quite frequently! I've got all sorts of new ideas for the story that I can't wait to write down and a refined skeleton for the plot ready to go!**

**Hopefully with all of the time at home I have now, I'll be able to pump out chapters a bit more frequently but no promises. I will do my damndest to finish this story! I swear! In the meantime, I hope this slightly longer chapter gives you a few moments of entertainment in this world of anarchy we find ourselves in.**

**I would consider myself irresponsible if I didn't encourage you to practice self-isolation and quarantine for the next few weeks as we try to get a handle on COVID-19. The more of us that stay home and limit our face-to-face interactions with people the more wiggle-room we give governments and medical workers to work with and the sooner we'll be able to reenter the world.**

**So please, have the best possible day you can and wash your hands! Until next time.**

**-Munch**


	6. A Lovely Day For a Tourney

**Chapter 6- A lovely day for a tourney**

Nat's cheeks were beginning to hurt from smiling. Usually this only happened at extended festivities and ceremonies, but when it came to Laina the prince couldn't help himself. She simply made the smiles rise from his belly to his lips. Said lips were frequently occupied when around Laina, but not for the moment, much to the prince's dismay. Unfortunately for his lips, it was time to discuss business.

Nat reached for the chair tucked neatly under his writing desk and spun it around. Arms crossed over the chair's back and legs sticking out on either side, the prince studied the woman sitting at the corner of his bed as she spoke.

The afternoon sunlight gleamed in shimmers off of her hair. She smelled sweet, despite her journey through the Red Keep's dankest tunnels, like a freshly plucked rose straight from Myrcella's garden. He would have to pay his sister a visit soon and acquire something nice for Laina, under the guise that it was all for Sansa Stark, of course. He would save the girl something, but a woman such as Laina deserved the best Westeros could offer, he thought.

"Nat?" she called.

Ah, his mind had been drifting again.

"Pardon me, what was it you were saying?" the prince cooed.

A smug smile crept across Laina's cheeks as she cocked her head at him. She knew how much that would irritate him. "I swear by the Old gods and the New," she nearly whispered. "It's a shame you're a Baratheon, with the amount of time your head spends in the clouds you'd fit right in at the Eyrie."

Nat returned her smile, "A shame you haven't learned your manners by now, I think I might have to dock your pay for the month," he said, ducking under a pillow aimed at his head.

Her eyes softened as her smile faded into a frown, "As much as I would love to engage in pillow combat with you, we should save the games for later, my prince, I'll remind you that I have important information regarding the death of Jon Arryn."

Nat closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, she was right, he'd been on edge for weeks since he'd received her letter, just because he was elated to be home didn't mean that Laina's words could be ignored. "Proceed," he told her.

Laina tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and leaned forwards, resting her elbows on her knees. "As you know, Lord Arryn was seen several times entering a brothel, Chataya's brothel, in the weeks prior to his death," she began.

Nat nodded. Chataya's brothel was an establishment he knew well, Miana Granes, one of his other contacts, and frequent bedside company, was of its employ. The brothel was a favorite of the king as well. Jon Arryn would have known this.

"Miana corroborated the eyewitness accounts for me, Lord Arryn visited perhaps once every two weeks, never on the same day, and always left without partaking in the brothel's services," Laina continued.

Nat's brow scrunched up. He hadn't expected Lord Arryn to partake in whoring, it was beneath the man's honor, but for what reason would he so frequently visit the Street of Silk if not for its whores? Several of the theories he had come up with in the past few weeks crossed his mind. The prince sighed, he couldn't decide which of them was the most plausible, he was never one for detective work and the sheer number of possibilities gave him a headache. Thankfully, he had Laina with him to sort out the pieces.

"What do you make of this?" he asked her, rubbing his temples.

The whore stifled the sentence on her tongue and tapped her index finger on her lower lip as she did when she was thinking. Nat loved to watch her think, Laina was amongst his favorite people for many reasons, but chief among them was her mind.

"I've thought about it quite a lot, and at first glance it's perplexing, I asked Miana to question some of Chataya's other whores, discretely of course," she tacked on, noting the prince's expression. "According to them, all Lord Arryn did in his time was talk to one specific whore, a woman who had given birth to a daughter just months prior."

Nat frowned. What would a trivial whore in Chataya's brothel mean to him? Certainly nothing unless she were connected to someone important. Since Nat's own business in the brothel was limited to Miana, the only other person of interest must be-

"My father," the prince concluded.

Laina met his gaze and nodded, "I had the same thought, there's a very good chance the whore, and her daughter, are connected to King Robert, and if I were to bet, I would say that he's fathered a bastard."

Nat stood slowly and shoved the chair back under his desk with a barely restrained thud. The _bastard_. The whoring itself was disgraceful enough for a married man of his stature, but to father bastards? _Royal_ bastards? He ran his right hand through his thick black hair. No…he wasn't much better…and this shouldn't be a surprise to him. If anything, it was a miracle only one bastard had been identified. Nat felt, of all emotions, a sharp pang of pain well up in his chest. Months of effort had led to this? No closer to solving the murder of Jon Arryn and a bastard sibling? He felt like tearing the Red Keep to the ground.

He felt the fingers on his left hand unpeel themselves from his palm one by one, a smaller, softer set interlocking with them as Laina made her way to his side. She had known the prince for many years and could feel his frustration.

"Don't lose your hope, my Nat, we've got a real lead now, we've only got to sort out what the Lord Hand was planning on doing with the knowledge of the King's bastard and we'll be able to discern who killed him," she whispered. "He will be avenged."

And with that, Nat felt his anger begin the slow process of dispelling. Laina had a way of calming him with just her presence and a few words that not another soul in all the Seven Kingdoms could hope to match. Truly, she was a light in a winter storm.

Nat raised her hand and pressed it to his lips. "Thank you, please send Miana my thanks as well…we'll have to look into this further in the coming weeks."

Laina smiled faintly, satisfied with her prince's response. She snaked her hands up to his neck, standing on her toes to wrap her arms around him, "Of course, now tell me, is the Warden of the North really so unbearable that you need send me a dozen complaints in the span of a month?"

Nat laughed deeply. "Oh he's quite dull and closed off, the stories about him are accurate, but he's a good man, I think; we'll do well to have a man of such honor as our Lord Hand," he said, pecking her cheek.

She laughed in that way that she did when she couldn't believe the words she was hearing, "Oh? And what of the rest of the Starks? I heard his daughters accompanied him South," she asked.

Nat quickly lost his smile at the mention of the Stark girls. He had specifically neglected to mention his betrothal to Sansa Stark in his correspondence with Laina for fear of her reaction. He had determined it would be more honorable to break the woman's heart when he was in the same kingdom as she was.

Nat unraveled himself from her embrace, to the woman's confusion. He glanced down at the stone flooring of his bedchambers, wishing he were anywhere else in Westeros at the moment. At last, the heir to the Iron Throne gently held her shoulders, and opened his mouth.

"An unforeseen goal of my father's trip North had to do with Lord Stark's eldest daughter," he spoke slowly and quietly, "My father intends to marry me off to her to preserve the North's loyalty."

Laina's inquisitive face melted into a one that was rarely worn in the prince's presence: one of pain. "You- well, you aren't going to accept being married off to a child, are you?" she seemed to squeak.

Nat exhaled, reaching for her arm before she quickly pulled away, "Laina…I've told you I'd marry you if I could but-"

The whore scoffed and back away from him as though he were plague stricken, "I can't believe you'd give into that oaf's will on this of all subjects!"

Nat grit his teeth. Laina knew the crime she had committed insulting the king, especially in his presence: she was plainly livid to speak so loosely. It wasn't as though he wanted to marry Sansa Stark, couldn't she see that? Did she really think that she meant so little to the prince that he wouldn't try to get out of the betrothal?

"Laina, I cannot avoid politics forever, if not Sansa Stark then it'll be another…" the prince thought back to his conversation with the king months prior in Winterfell, "someone must bear my children and keep the royal line going!"

Laina turned to him, tears welling in her eyes. Nat's heart sank. He had expected this conversation to be difficult, but he had never seen her so hurt in all their years together. It was clear that the mention of children, the ones that she could never bear for him as a whore, had crossed a line for the woman.

"Well…it seems you've made up your mind then," she said before making her way for the door. She gave the wood a quick double tap, the signal for Ammett to guide her back to the Keep's tunnels so that she could exit the palace without arousing suspicion.

"Laina!" Nat called as she reached for the door's handle. The whore turned to him, her pale-green eyes growing red as the pain of their hopeless situation dug its way further into her heart. "If I had any say…it would be you, no other."

She glanced down at the floor, looking as though she wanted to respond. To the prince's dismay, she said nothing as she slipped from his bedchambers, leaving the stench of betrayal and heartbreak to stir with him for the rest of the evening.

~0~0~0~

The prince was sluggish as he made his way towards the Hand's chambers the next morning. His fight with Laina had stayed with him all through the night and he had been awake late into the night thinking of more points he could have brought up to her. He _hated_ leaving her on a disagreement. On the rare occasion it did happen Laina was cold to him for weeks, and never had their arguments been about something so important to their relationship. Why couldn't she see that he had no say in this either? Curse the king for putting them in this situation.

Nat shook his head and straightened his back. He would have to leave thoughts of Laina for later, he had more pressing matters to consider. By coincidence, one of those pressing matters in Lord Eddard Stark was approaching him.

"Ah! My Lord Hand, just the man I wanted to see!" Nat cried in faux cheer, raising a hand to the Warden of the North.

By the look of him, Nat could guess that Eddard was as troubled as he, if not more.

"My Prince," Eddard acknowledged with a nod of his head. "Do you have a moment?"

Nat chuckled boisterously, "Weren't you listening? I decided to spend a fraction of my precious hours coming to speak with you, my Lord- of course! What is troubling you?"

Eddard gave him a quizzical look before sighing and motioning for Nat to walk with him down the hall. "I met with Robert yesterday evening to discuss the tournament as we had discussed-"

"I take it he was a stubborn old boar?" Nat asked, looking straight ahead as they walked.

Eddard glanced up at him, "That's one way of putting it, yes…he insists on a tournament."

Nat snickered bitterly, "Of course he does; say what you will of the man but at least he's consistent in his foolishness."

Eddard tugged at the cuff of his sleeve, a nervous tick the prince noted, before continuing, "I must proceed as the king desires but I've no clue how to avoid the strain this will further place on the Crown's coffers."

Nat smirked, "And you've come to ask my sage advice?"

The Hand grumbled, "In a way, what do you make of this? What would you do if you were king?"

Nat smiled; it was nice to know that the new Hand of the King was smart enough to understand who to consult in matters of the Crown's affairs. "My my, Lord Stark, you must be careful with your volume or someone will think you're seeking to replace my father!" he joked.

Eddard's gaze was steely, the Quiet Wolf was truly no fun at all.

"There are several paths we could take to solve this issue, none of them particularly safe," Nat began as they rounded a corner. "We could refuse to do as my father demands and thus incite his wrath for one."

Eddard grimaced at the thought.

"But of course that would be foolish, and one doesn't combat foolishness with foolishness so it's not the route we shall take," the prince continued. "We could simply bend to my father's will and throw the Crown into further debt in order to avoid the headache and resign ourselves to cleaning up the mess later but that, alas, would be more foolishness."

"Then what shall we do, my Prince?" Eddard asked with a pinch of impatience.

The prince smiled and stopped, turning towards the Lord of Winterfell, "We need a way to ensure minimal expense in this endeavor, namely the prizes to be awarded to the victors in which there is a simple, albeit risky solution: I shall enter the tournament."

Eddard's eyes widened, "But my Prince these tournaments are dangerous! Surely we cannot risk your safety for-"

Nat held up a palm to quiet him. "I've participated in tournaments all my life, Lord Stark, I've been trained by the very best in all manners of combat," the prince held his arms out before the him and a shadow came over his face, "I am our ace-in-the-hole so to speak; I shall win both contests and thus save us sixty thousand gold dragons or I shall die trying."

Nat stood to his full height and clapped the very uncomfortable man on the shoulder, "No need to worry Lord Stark, that last bit was only a joke though I can see you don't quite understand my sense of humor, ah well, I am off to court your daughter!"

And with that, the Warden of the North was left alone to stare at the limestone floor of the hall and contemplate the danger before him.

~0~0~0~

The Iron Throne in all its intimidating glory towered over the small figures of Sansa Stark and her tutor, Septa Mordane, as they worked their way through a brief overview of Sansa's future role as queen.

"Someday your husband will sit there, and you will sit by his side. And one day, before long, you will present your son to the court," at this suggestion, the eldest Stark daughter made a face. "All the lords and ladies of Westeros will gather here to see the little prince!" the Septa explained.

"What if I have a girl?" Sansa wondered aloud.

The Septa laughed, "Gods be good you'll have boys and girls, and lots of them!"

Sansa gazed up fearfully towards the throne. Her future little princes and princesses had been the subject of her thoughts for ages, but recently a new intrusive, terrifying thought had come into her mind: "What if I only have girls?"

The Septa quickly dismissed her concern, "Oh I wouldn't worry about that."

"Jeyne Poole's mother had five children, all of them girls," Sansa insisted.

"Yes, but that's highly unlikely-"

"But what if?" Sansa asked, feeling the pressure of the towering mass of swords on her shoulders.

The Septa paused and looked up at the Iron Throne, as if seeing the unpleasant scenario unfolding before her, "If you only had girls, I suppose the throne would pass onto Prince Nat's younger brother Joffrey."

Sansa shrank before the throne as the Septa seemed to confirm her fears, "And everyone will hate me!"

The Septa touched the girl's arm, "No one could ever hate you, Sansa."

Sansa almost laughed, "Prince Joffrey hates me! I'm sure that Nat hates me now too- you should have seen how he looked at me after the king asked me to tell him what I saw!"

The Septa frowned, "Nonsense! Why would you say such a thing?" she thought for a moment. "What you saw…is this about the business with the wolves? Sansa, I've told you a hundred times that a direwolf is not-"

At this point, Sansa had heard enough. "Please, shut up about it."

The Septa frowned once more before deciding to move on, "Do you remember your lessons? Who built the Iron Throne?"

"Aegon the Conqueror."

"And who built the Red Keep?"

"Maegor the Cruel."

"And how many years did it take to build-"

"My grandfather and uncle were murdered here, weren't they?" Sansa interrupted.

The Septa nearly choked, "Yes, they were executed on the order of King Aerys."

"The Mad King," Sansa said, face a blank slate.

"Commonly known as the Mad King, yes," the Septa sighed.

"Why were they killed?" Sansa asked.

"You should really ask your father about such things-"

"She's also welcome to ask me, though I'm known to be a bit blunt about such matters," a voice called from behind them.

Sansa's heart leapt into her throat. It was Nat! Had the Crown Prince been listening the entire time? She felt her cheeks grow hot.

"M-my Prince," Sansa curtsied.

She peaked up at him and caught his eye. She could hardly believe how handsome he was. Stories of brave knights, noble princes and princesses had filled her head since childhood, but never could Sansa have imagined she'd be betrothed to such a man. His eyes twinkled down at her knowingly. She was sure he could sense her tension.

"Pardon my interruption, Septa Mordane, but would it be alright for Sansa to join me on a walk through my sister's garden?"

Sansa looked up at the Septa, eyes pleading. The Septa sighed and nodded, "Oh, I suppose that's enough for today…"

Sansa smiled broadly and took the prince's outstretched arm, excited to spend more time with the man, even if she wasn't quite sure what he thought of her yet.

~0~0~0~

Myrcella's Garden was like a cool gust of air amid the burning red limestone of the rest of the Red Keep. Greenery stretched across every pathway in arches and twists. Hedges lined the cobblestone pathways with flowers in every imaginable color tucked away at their roots. The sweet scent of honey and plant life was nearly overwhelming. Sansa had only been in King's Landing for two days, but she had already found her favorite place in the city. The North was full of wildlife but not in such splendor and variety as only a few steps into the princess's garden; Sansa could spend ages in here without tiring of the environment.

She looked up and to her left to behold her betrothed staring straight ahead, leading her through the garden at an easy pace. His eyes were dull and unfocused as he guided them along the pathway, like he was working his way to their destination on memory alone. Sansa couldn't help but feel disappointed, when the prince had asked her to walk with him, she had assumed that the two of them would spend time getting to know one another rather than this slow silence that she had already become comfortable in. She studied his distracted expression and a thought occurred to her that she'd nearly forgotten in all the excitement of the city. One that she hoped might ignite the embers of conversation.

"My Prince," she began. "I can't thank you enough for what you've done for me."

Nat's emerald eyes seemed to snap back into focus, drawing him away from whatever distant place he had been in before. "Forgive me Lady Sansa, but what is it you mean?" he asked.

Sansa blushed, she probably should have been more specific. "For protecting Lady for me, is what I meant, on the Kingsroad?"

Nat's expression softened and a smile crept across his features, "Think nothing of it! I'd be a poor prince to let such an injustice occur in my own kingdom, wouldn't I?"

Sansa's blue eyes shone with delight that her idea had worked. She hardly knew the prince, but he was just so…good. So considerate and noble and intelligent. Every time they had spoken he had further demonstrated his nobility to her. This was the prince that she wanted to fall in love with. All of the worry that had clouded her mind over the last several weeks seemed to evaporate as quickly as it had come. Septa Mordane had been right, Nat couldn't hate her when he spoke to her so sweetly. A man like him would make a fine king someday, she just hoped she could make a fine queen to match him.

"How have you been adjusting to your surroundings, Lady Sansa? I trust the southern climate has been to your liking?"

Sansa nodded, "It's strange being so far from the North, but I'm quite enjoying the grandeur of the city already!"

Nat smiled at her and gestured toward a bench as they entered a courtyard near the center of the garden. The two nobles sat side by side and took in their surroundings. The hedges here were much higher than those at the edges of the garden so that seated one couldn't be seen past them, not even one so tall as the prince.

Sansa observed as he leaned back on his haunches, eyes closed taking in the heat. The light seemed to accent his features, contrasting his groomed dark hair with its golden hues. And just like that, they returned to the comfortable silence they had been in only minutes before. Sansa furrowed her brow as she remembered the words her mother had said to her months ago.

_When I first married your father I didn't think much of him, nor he of me, but we grew to respect and love one another over time, that's what makes for a proper marriage, love_ her words echoed.

She had chosen to ignore those words in Winterfell, but now they wouldn't leave her head. What did the prince think of her, really? Reflecting now on all their interactions together, Sansa could hardly think of a conversation that hadn't gone in the same direction as the one they were currently having was; all pleasantries but nothing much of substance. A pit of worry reformed in her chest. She had initially taken this to be a good sign, that the two of them were getting along, but shouldn't they be having real conversations by now? After months of betrothal?

"My prince," Sansa started carefully. "Why did you ask me on this walk?"

The prince opened his eyes and cocked his head at her, that familiar toothy smile quickly formed on his face. "I beg your pardon, my lady?"

"Well, it seems we've exchanged quite a number of pleasantries over the last several months," she said quickly. "I was just wondering if that was all you wanted from this talk as well."

Something changed in the prince's expression. For a brief moment, just a flash, it seemed as though he didn't know what to say. That was strange. The prince had never seemed to run out of words to say before.

"Please forgive me, Lady Sansa, for my ignorance," he said holding up his palms. "You see, it was my understanding that courting subsisted mostly of such pleasantries and time spent in one another's company; I thought we-"

The prince stopped cold and his expression shifted drastically. Sansa nearly gasped at how quickly his warm tone and appearance had collapsed into the cold deadpanned look that he now wore on his face. He was staring across the courtyard, to a figure behind the small fountain at its center. Crouched there was a woman in pale pink robes, tending to the purple lilies that rested on the surface of the water. She was gorgeous and looked older than either Sansa or the prince from the look of her. Her hair glowed in the midday sun, cascading elegantly down her shoulders. Her face was soft and womanly as was her figure. She looked more like a noblewoman than her simple dress said that she was. Glancing back towards the prince, Sansa noticed that his knuckles were now white as his hands clenched around the fabric of his tunic.

"M-my Prince-" she sputtered before he stood and marched quickly towards the woman who had only just noticed the two of them and was smiling softly. Unsure of what to do, Sansa hurried after Nat who had already reached the fountain.

"Excuse me, _my Lady_," the prince said through grit teeth. "I've reserved the gardens for my private use for the next two hours- you must have seen the guards stationed at the entrance-you aren't supposed to be here," he accentuated the last few words.

The woman was shorter than Sansa, but her presence was much stronger. Her light green eyes flashed with a similar fire as the prince's as she spoke. "Oh I apologize, _my Prince_," she said with a melodic, crystalline voice. "I had just noticed that so many of the flowers in this courtyard hadn't yet bloomed, I just thought it a strange place for anyone to want to spend much time."

Sansa's frowned. _Most of the flowers in this part of the garden are in bloom…but what is she even doing here, who is this woman?_

A vein on the prince's temple began to bulge and his face, usually tanned from the southern sun, had taken on a strange red color. "Perhaps the flowers aren't quite in bloom yet, but they're still of the proper pedigree for a garden such as this one; where else would I be expected to spend my time?"

The woman's smile had faded and Sansa noted that she too was clenching her fists now. "Pardon my assumption, _my Prince_, but it still seems strange to me that someone of your intellect and ability would willingly choose to enter this garden at all! Surely you could find another garden if you worked hard enough!" she was shouting now.

Sansa looked back and forth between the two of them and began to grow heated herself. Who was this strange woman that thought she could talk to the prince in such a tone? Surely Nat would have her arrested or expelled from the city?

Nat closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and began to speak with a slow, restrained rage, "For a prince, there is no other garden I could choose, even though I wish there were; I'll ask you kindly to understand that, _my Lady_ and to leave this garden before you get into trouble."

"But it's not fair!" she screamed.

Sansa was taken aback. Not only did the prince continue to disgrace himself by continuing to let this…_woman_ disrespect him, but now he allowed her to defy his authority? What was going on? Sansa had to say something.

"Excuse me, but you need to leave! You've already spoiled a lovely afternoon walk and I won't stand for-"

"Sansa, for once I am asking you to know your place and _SHUT UP_!" Nat rounded on her.

Sansa choked on the rest of her sentence and brought a hand to her chest, taking a few steps back. This wasn't right…Sansa was defending his honor as any good wife would be expected to do, and he was angry with her? She had heard stories of the famous Baratheon temper and knew the words of the Great House like she knew that of so many others: _Ours is the Fury_. It seemed Nat was not the exception to the standard she had mistaken him to be.

Tears began to well in her eyes. Sansa had of course been scolded before, but never had she been so shouted at so fiercely. Even her father had never gotten so harsh with her before. The worries about this betrothal came rushing back to her. The doubts, the fear, and the anxiety hit her all at once. If there was a temper like this buried within the prince, one that could erupt so suddenly, there seemed little hope left for the gentle and proper marriage that her mother had described from coming to pass. Was the prince more like the king than she had thought, or rather hoped that he would be? It seemed so.

"Forgive me, my Prince," Sansa said as she held back tears. "I should return to Septa Mordane, I don't want to get too far behind on my lessons!" she squeaked as she turned and rushed from the garden.

The Prince groaned and rubbed his temples as he and Laina watched his betrothed flee from the garden. "She's nothing but a child," Laina declared. Nat whipped his head back to her and leaned in close.

"What in the name of the Seven did you think you'd be doing by pulling this stunt? Did you really think you would change my mind by infiltrating the Red Keep like this? How did you even get in here?" he hissed.

Laina met his eyeline with a cold glare, "I told Ammett I had more important information for you that just couldn't wait, he's a loyal one but far too gullible, you know."

Nat sighed and laced his fingers together behind the back of his head. He was angry. Angry at Laina, at his father, at the marriage he was being forced into by his role as a prince, but within all of the anger was a sense of exhaustion. Laina was right, Sansa Stark was a child. A child with clearly unrealistic expectations and an apparent ignorance in her view of the world that far too many noblemen and women in Westeros held. He didn't want to marry or father children with her. He hardly wanted to interact with her. By all of his own thinking, the woman he should be betrothed to was standing a few feet to his left. But what could he really do in the face of the future of his country?

Glancing down at the still heated Laina his heart ached. If only Westerosi society would see the vibrant life and energy in the Smallfolk that he did. The value in them. Then maybe…no, there was no use wondering what might be in a different world. This was the world they lived in, and it wouldn't change easily, not for them.

"Laina, I cannot change my circumstances and you know that…this was entirely inappropriate of you and I am asking you as your friend, as your lover, to walk away now before any more mistakes are made," he spoke mournfully.

Laina looked up at him with icy green eyes and said nothing for several moments as she looked into his eyes, searching. Then, without a word, she turned and strode from the garden, leaving the prince frustrated and alone.

~0~0~0~

The members of the Small Council under King Robert I Baratheon sat in silence in the afternoon light. The Small Council Chamber was silent except for the slow tapping of the Commander of the City Watch, Janos Slynt's foot as the lords awaited the arrival of the sole remaining member of the council.

Ned leaned forward on the long table before him, sifting his fingers through his dark hair, "The Crown Prince isn't…usually, this late I would presume?" he asked.

Grand Maester Pycelle shook his head fervently, long chains clinking around his neck, "No, no, I assure you my Lord Hand, the Crown Prince is the epitome of timeliness and responsibility!"

"Such sweet words, Grand Maester, you flatter me," a voice called from the hallway.

Nat entered, closing the heavy chamber door behind him and quickly taking his seat at the head of the table. "Please forgive my tardiness, my Lords, I'm afraid I was caught up in some personal matters," he sighed, catching Ned's eye as he settled into his chair.

Petyr cocked his head slightly, resting his cheek in his palm, "Oh a personal matter, well if it's anything of worry you should certainly inform us; the members of the Small Council are here to assist the King, after all."

Nat flashed his Lion's Grin, "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Lord Baelish, but I'm only a prince and thus my personal matters shall stay personal."

Petyr returned his smile, "Oh that's correct, how could I forget?"

Janos Slynt cleared his throat and raised a gloved hand slightly, "Pardon me my Prince, Lord Baelish, but might we address the matter I've come to speak of?"

Like clockwork, Nat corrected his posture, clasped his hands before him on the long table and put on his Lion's Grin, nodding to the commander. Eddard marveled at how quickly the prince switched personas. He had heard of the years that the prince had spent at Casterly Rock being fostered by his grandfather, Lord Tywin Lannister, this must be the result of years spent under the master politician's tutelage.

"It's the Hand's Tournament that's been causing all this trouble, my Lords," Janos explained.

Eddard waved a hand in dismissal, "The King's tournament, I assure you the hand wants no part of it."

The man's face dropped somewhat, "Call it what you will, Lord Stark Ser, the city is packed with people and more flooding in everyday. Last night we had a tavern riot, a brothel fire, three stabbings and a drunken horse race down the Street of Sisters!"

The prince whistled, "That's quite a lot for one night."

"Dreadful," Varys concurred.

"If you can't keep the King's peace, perhaps the City Watch should be commanded by someone who can," Renly suggested.

Janos's round head began to resemble a ripe tomato, Nat thought, as the lords of the Small Council added their opinions one after the other. "I need more men," he insisted gruffly.

"You'll get fifty; Lord Baelish will see that it's paid for," Eddard announced.

"I will?"

"You found money for the champion's purse, you can find money to keep the King's peace; you'll also get twenty of my household guard until the crowds have left," he continued.

Nat chuckled and stuck his thumb towards Eddard, "Isn't he noble? The stories about your honor don't do you justice, Lord Stark!" he declared.

Eddard gave the prince a grim look before turning to the rest of the council, "If there's nothing else, my Lords?"

With nothing else on their agenda, the lords of the Small Council stood and made their way out of the chamber, past the guards stationed at the entrance one by one. "The heat! On days like this I envy you northerners and your summer snows," Pycelle said, fanning himself as he hobbled towards the chamber door. "Until tomorrow, my Lord."

"I'd been hoping to speak to you about Jon Arryn," Eddard said from behind the long table.

The Grand Maester turned to face Eddard, "Lord Arryn? His death was a great sadness to all of us. I took personal charge of his care, but I could not save him. His sickness struck him very hard and very fast. I saw him I my chambers just the night before he passed; Lord Jon often came to me for council!" he summarized.

"Why?"

"I've been Grand Maester for many years, Kings and Hands have come to me for advice since-"

"What did Jon want the night before he died?" Eddard pressed.

"He came inquiring after a book."

"A book? What book?"

Pycelle shook his head, "I fear it would be of little interest to you, my Lord- a ponderous tome."

"I'd like to read it," Eddard insisted.

Pycelle nodded to the Hand of the King and motioned for him to follow him to his chambers. Eddard rounded the table and the two men quickly made their way out of the Small Council chamber to continue their conversation, passing a tall City Watch guard with tanned skin and dark eyes.

_Lord Stark is inquiring about the death of Jon Arryn?_ Ammett thought to himself, back straightened as he stared down the hallway after the two men. _I'd better make contact with the Prince as soon as possible, this is likely something he'll want to know about._

~0~0~0~

Jon Snow stood atop the Wall alone, peering into the black of night from thousands of feet in the air. It had been weeks since he had left his home and life at Winterfell to take the Black, and the Night's Watch had been different than he had imagined in almost all regards. Still, the solitude from so high up brought the man some solace in his circumstances. Or it had until he heard a shuffling from behind him.

Waddling slightly closer was a large man with a boyish face and the traces of a beard on his cheeks. He was Samwell Tarly, the man who only hours early had been humiliated in front of the other new recruits at Castle Black for his utter lack of combat ability.

"Hello, Ser Alliser said I was to be your new watch partner…I should warn you, I don't see too well," he greeted.

Jon nodded his acknowledgement and motioned towards the fire at his feet, "Come stand close to the fire, it's warmer," he insisted.

Samwell held up his palms and shook his head, "No that's alright, I'm fine."

Jon looked him in the eyes sternly, "No you're not, you're freezing."

Samwell crept closer to the fire and slowly peeked over the edge of the Wall into the abyss below. "I don't like high places," he declared.

"You can't fight. You can't see. You're afraid of heights and almost everything else probably- what are you doing here, Sam?" Jon snapped.

Sam got a gloomy look in his eyes before looking up at Jon, "On the morning of my 18th Nameday, my father came to me. 'You're almost a man,' he said to me. 'But you're not worthy of my land and title, tomorrow you're going to take the black, forsake all claim to your inheritance and head north. If you do not,' he said. 'then we'll have a hunt, and somewhere in those woods your horse will stumble and you'll be thrown from your saddle to die, or so I'll tell your mother, nothing would please me more,'" Sam finished.

Jon stared at him, mouth half-agape. He thought himself the sorriest boy in the world most of his childhood. The bastard son of the honorable Ned Stark. Forever to be ignored and unloved. Never to marry or father sons. Never to rule over a castle or truly have a family. But he did have one. A home with a father that treated him decently. In that moment, he felt pity for the bumbling man that stood uneasily beside him atop the Wall.

"Ser Alliser's going to make me fight again tomorrow, isn't he?" Sam asked with a glance. Jon nodded in confirmation. Sam groaned, "I'm not going to get any better, you know!"

Jon smiled slyly, "Well you can't get any worse."

The two men began to laugh heartily to themselves, enjoying the solitude of their Watch together amid the cold Northern winds and the flickering flame at their feet.

~0~0~0~

Hand to the King Lord Eddard Stark had much on his mind. The tournament that King Robert was to hold in his honor was pressing upon his mind, as were his daughter's activities in this new environment the Stark family found themselves in. But what was occupying most of the space in his head was the conversation he and the Master of Whispers, Lord Varys, had only hours prior.

_What could Jon have wanted with a book of lineages of the High Lord and Ladies of Westeros? What were you doing, Jon?_ He thought to himself as he walked briskly through one of the Red Keep's courtyards.

A figure slithered up to his left side. Littlefinger. Ned tried to contain his disdain for the man as best he could. He didn't trust the Master of Coin very much, especially given his tumultuous history with his wife, Catelyn Stark. Being fostered at Riverrun, her girlhood home, by her father Lord Hoster Tully the two had grown up very close. The man had even gone so far as to challenge Eddard's elder brother, Brandon Stark, for Catelyn's hand in marriage in a duel, a foolish endeavor that nearly cost him his life.

It was safe to say given the man's slippery nature he wasn't one that the Warden of the North would put much faith in.

"I hear you're reading a boring book," Petyr said as he kept pace with Ned's long strides.

"Pycelle talks too much," Ned grumbled.

Petyr grinned, "He never stops; do you know Lord Hugh of the Vale?" Noticing Ned's blank expression he took it to mean that he did not know of the man and continued. "Not surprising…until recently he was only a squire, Jon Arryn's squire."

This, it seemed, caught the man's attention. Ned glanced over to him, nearly missing a step as the two walked. "He was knighted almost immediately after his master's death," Littlefinger finished.

"Knighted for what? Why are you telling me this?" Ned asked.

"I promised Cat that I'd help you," he replied.

"Well where is Ser Hugh? I'll speak with him," Ned queried.

Littlefinger shook his head, "A singularly bad idea; do you see that boy there?" Petyr nodded towards a young boy sitting under a skinny tree in an untilled patch of the courtyard garden.

"One of Varys's little birds. The Spider has taken great interest in your comings and goings, now look there," this time Petyr looked towards a manservant ahead of them, tilling rows in a different part of the courtyard. "That one belongs to the Queen; and that handmaiden up ahead walking of us just far enough to appear inconspicuous and just close enough to listen in on our conversation? The Prince's. And do you see that Septa-"

Ned stopped him, "Alright, I understand, to whom does she belong?"

Littlefinger's smile stretched further, "She's one of mine. Tell me, do you have someone in your service whom you trust completely?"

Ned thought of Jory Cassel, "Yes."

Littlefinger wagged his finger at him, "The wiser answer was no, my Lord. Get a message to this Paragon of yours- discretely. Send him to question Ser Hugh…after that you might want to visit a certain armorer in the city, he lives in a large house at the top of the Street of Steel."

"Why?"

"I have my observers as I've said, and it's possible they saw Lord Arryn visit this armorer several times in the weeks before his death."

Ned stopped and turned to face Petyr, "Lord Baelish, perhaps I was wrong to distrust you."

Littlefinger smiled and waved his goodbyes, "Distrusting me was the wisest thing you've done since climbing off your horse," he called as he left the Hand to the King alone in the courtyard.

~0~0~0~

Nat stood near the edge of the jousting arena, basking in the excitement of the crowd on the morning of the Hand's Tournament. A squire was tending to his jousting horse, a mighty black beast named Nightrider. The Prince wore his true armor, the plate he was meant to wear to combat, should the need arise. Black plate with crimson stained leather beneath, Nat bore the colors of both his Houses, though the golden stag adorning his chest plate and the monstrous black antlers stemming from his helmet signified which house the Prince truly belonged to. Holding the head-piece by an antler, Nat smiled confidently down the jousting pitch as his saddle was being strapped to Nightrider.

"I see you're taking this tourney quite seriously." A voice called from behind him.

Turning, Nat found himself face-to-face with Ser Barristan Selmy in his white Kingsguard armor, arms crossed and sad blue eyes shining with a dull light. Nat smiled at the Old Ser's presence; while Jon Arryn had taught the prince many things, and indeed had been the first man to show him how to properly wield a blade in his youth, the prince could attribute most of his combat prowess to Barristan the Bold, one of Westeros's proudest relics. As such, the Old Ser was one of the only men whom the prince would speak to in a nonformal manner.

"Of course, Old Ser, haven't you heard, there's quite a pretty penny on the line!" he jested.

Barristan rolled his eyes, though his smile gave away his true feelings. Barristan wasn't one for trickery or deceit, it was part of why Nat was so taken with the elder knight. The Commander of the Kingsguard raised a plated hand and stroked Nightrider's nose gently.

"Promise me that you'll treat this tournament with the degree of seriousness it requires- you do know who's competing, don't you?"

Nat glanced over his shoulder and thumbed towards his first opponent, Ser Gregor Clegane, more commonly referred to as the Mountain. The beast of a knight was even taller than the Crown Prince himself, a feat very few men in Westeros accomplished, and was built quite like…well, a mountain.

"Oh yes, I'm well aware of my impending doom, don't you worry yourself, Ser Barristan."

Barristan's pale blue eyes glanced up at the prince as he recrossed his arms, "My Prince, please," he urged.

Nat sighed and put on his serious face. He hated having to wear it in the presence of someone he actually enjoyed being around. It made him feel stiff and boring, and the Crown Prince was anything but, he thought.

"I understand the imagery wrapped up in this silly affair," Ser Barristan began. "But you needn't endanger yourself like this, you're the heir to the Seven Kingdoms, the _only_ heir it could suffer, begging your pardon…I'm surprised King Robert would even allow this," the man trailed off.

Nat smiled sadly at Ser Barristan. He knew the man well and knew his intentions were noble, but he simply couldn't see the larger picture of his being in the tournament, not that Nat would fault him for it. "Ser Barristan, I appreciate your concern, but I'm no one to worry over, you know better than any man in Westeros that I fight more with my mind than with my blade; besides, his Grace wouldn't endanger his heir if he didn't think I could win, would he?"

Barristan raised a brow expressing his doubts, to which the prince laughed warmly.

"You trained me well, Ser Barristan, you'll be proud to watch your student single-handedly bring down a mountain, eh?"

A cheer went up from behind them. The Mountain had clambered atop his horse and was now trotting towards the center of the pitch to formally acknowledge the king. It was time for the Hand's Tournament to begin.

Nat put on his stag helm and took Nightstrider's reins from the squire, pulling himself into the saddle. "I'll see you by the end of the day, Ser Barristan, of that you have my word," the prince waved to him with a smile before trotting off towards the Mountain to the roar of the crowd.

Ser Barristan sighed and watched the boy go, saying a silent prayer to the Seven for his student's safety. "That I pray you will, my Prince," he muttered to himself, climbing out of the jousting pitch to watch from the audience the first match of the tournament.

~0~0~0~

**Whew! And that's **_**finally**_** Chapter 6. I'm so sorry for such a long wait, especially after promising to try and get these out more often! As you can imagine, my life along with all of our lives at the moment, is incredibly hectic and emotionally charged. **

**I find it hard to write with all the stress of the world as like many writers, it's hard to find any motivation to write amid depressing circumstances. In addition, this chapter was especially hard to navigate through as I wasn't sure what I was going to do in preparation for the hand's tournament. I think it turned out well enough, though, and next chapter we'll be getting into the actual tournament itself. It'll probably only be a chapter long in length, but if I find it's getting too long I may split it into two- we'll have to see. **

**As for when that'll be, I can't really promise anything, especially since the semester is starting up again soon. Probably for the best that I don't make promises about release dates anymore! But for better or worse, I'm going to finish this story. I think once we get out of the more rigid early story and more into the divergence from the plot of the show I'll be able to get these out a lot quicker (hopefully!). **

**Until then, have a great day and please take care of yourselves. **

**-Munch**


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